


What Edens of Seclusion

by under_a_linden_tree, WyvernQuill



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (in the final chapter), 18th Century, Canon Compliant, Disagreements, Earth Observation Files, F/M, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, Historical, Male-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Pining, The Arrangement (Good Omens), Undressing, a whole cast of OCs, and they were roommates (but in the 18th century), inspired by german classic lit, oh look other demons are here, the inherent gothic romance of a good storm, with art
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25578643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill
Summary: Germany, 1771. Crowley is on her way to fulfil an assignment when her carriage is stopped outside a strangely picturesque village and she's told to let the assignment rest and wait for further instructions. When Crowley suddenly runs into Aziraphale and convinces him to let her stay with him, everything seems perfect, until strange things start to happen. While Aziraphale first blames Crowley, it soon becomes obvious that they have been tricked with fake assignments. They need to find out more before word of their Arrangement gets out to Heaven or Hell. If only those feelings between them weren't so complicated...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 90
Kudos: 41
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	1. Keep Your Enemies Close

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Do It With Style Mini Bang. I got paired with the lovely WyvernQuill to work on this fic, and you can find their art embedded in the first chapters.
> 
> I'm still in awe of the lovely mods who organised this event, thank you for everything! Thank you also to my betas, [itwasadarkandstormynight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itwasadarkandstormynight/pseuds/itwasadarkandstormynight) and [D20Owlbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear).  
> And another huge thank you to [Thyra279](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279/pseuds/Thyra279). It wouldn't have been the same fic without her and her critique.

_One sees in the world what one carries in the heart.  
(J. W. Goethe, Faust I)_

_September 15, 1771._

The carriage comes to a halt in the middle of the road and Crowley clings to the door to avoid being thrown onto the floor. A quick glance through the curtained window is enough to give her an idea of what just happened. The village outline is still a few miles away, and the weather is too dry for mud on the road, which leads to one conclusion: an obstacle on the road. The coachman, however, hasn’t made a move. Something else is going on here.

“Madame Crowley?” the boy on the box calls out. “There’s a messenger for you, with a letter.”

“Let him hand it over,” she responds and draws back the curtains a bit further.

A curly-haired, bony rider approaches and respectfully nods in greeting. Dark eyes scan Crowley’s face and the rider seems to be satisfied with the result of the observation.

“Letter for you, Madame Crowley.”

The croaky voice is accompanied by a smile with a few too many teeth. It strangely reminds Crowley of Dagon flipping through Crowley’s latest performance review, albeit without the intense cold sweat pooling in her neck.

Crowley waits for the rider to disappear, then she quickly rips the seal open. The paper alone is enough to tell her this is a missive from Hell, wilted yellow and greasy under her fingertips. A few dark spots are peppered across it and Crowley doesn’t want to know how they ended up there. Her eyes swiftly run over the spidery lines scrawled across the paper.

 _Corwley **[1]** _— _abandon mission. Enemy has influenced subject to Good. Remain put (put refers to Germany, NOT target city! avoid mingling with Enemy, subject is lost cause!). Expect new assignment by new year._

So one of Heaven’s agents has interfered. Crowley hasn’t even had a chance of arriving in Wolfenbüttel, the small town she was supposed to tempt a poet in. While this is certainly less than ideal, she still considers it better than the alternative—fighting over the subject in question with a stuck-up, self-righteous heavenly agent. It’s been quite a while since Crowley has had a run-in with an angel other than Aziraphale and she would prefer to keep it that way.

“Madame?” the boy calls and distracts her from the message. “Where are we going?”

“Into the village. We’ll take a break there.”

That should give her enough time to decide what to do next. She cannot go back to London, so coming up with a plan for the next four months should be her new priority. There must be _some_ place around here that’s at least a little interesting, although Crowley would be inclined to doubt it.

* * *

Crowley has spent the past months at court in Vienna. Times are changing quickly with this century’s Enlightenment movement and Crowley has found that, over the course of millennia, progress has always been something that ensured dissent to form between humans. No easier way to make trouble than to introduce a preposterous old court to new ideas, sway a few opinions, and block some others. Although, to be honest, Crowley found herself approving of many an idea she’d spread, and quite a number of humans hadn’t even needed so much as a nudge in… a certain direction. She’d rather not call it right or wrong, things are hardly ever that simple.

It was a good time, overall, mingling among the rich and noble. Tell them you’re the widow of some poor sod who gave his life in the war against Prussia, and suddenly doors open for you. Poor Madame lost her husband to a noble cause, _she_ must be in need of assistance! It’s as simple as that.

Just when she’d reported her success back to Hell, the missive had arrived, ordering her to leave Vienna behind and make her way to Germany, where a poet was supposed to cause outrage with his latest play, a tale of affairs and betrayal and murder. Or at least, that’s what Hell had had in mind before Heaven had interfered.

* * *

They stop at the village square and Crowley quickly exits the carriage, aching to get out and move her legs. Having them cramped in a small space for such a long time makes them feel even more like some useless, gangly accessories that somehow don’t belong with the rest of her corporation. She never really got the hang of it.

The boy is presently returning from the nearby stable, carrying a bundle of hay to the trough where the horses are already drinking. Depending on where she wants to go, she could possibly change to a lighter Phaeton carriage and get rid of the coachman altogether, if that kind of thing is available in a village like this. Perhaps a bit too modern for the German countryside.

Anyway, there’s a lot of things one can do with a few months of time off the clock, even if Crowley’s supposed to stay put. Villages are always a great opportunity for tempting. In a community as tight-knit as these, everybody knows everything, and sin spreads like wildfire. Well. Best get to know the place then, if Crowley wants to get some work done here, right?

Crowley stretches and tries to get the days spent travelling out of her joints. They crack a little, but that’s not enough to relieve her of the pain in her lower back. Damn carriage rides, not much better than horses, really. She sets her slim sunglasses firmly into place again and takes a curious look around the marketplace.

It’s terribly bright. Not just the sunlight, the houses themselves. They’re whitewashed, brimming with new façades and large windows, grouped around a cobblestone square dotted with tidy, picturesque stands. A few farmers have brought their livestock here, the fluffiest sheep Crowley’s ever seen and she’s seen a good deal of them back in the day, living the bucolic nightmare in the early AD years. There’s a well, a patch of common with emerald grass, children playing there with a hobbyhorse, and townsfolk straight out of a fashion palette. Even the farmers are picture-perfect, red-cheeked, and sturdy in their grass-stained trousers and coarse petticoats. It’s almost eerily beautiful, this aura of happiness that surrounds the place so strongly that even a demon could not overlook it. Crowley can’t sense a single trace of malice.

Suddenly, something bright catches her eye. It’s a tailcoat, finely embroidered. For a moment, Crowley wonders what’s so special about it, but then the gentleman turns. Aziraphale is looking at her, surprise written across his face. The corners of his mouth twitch, and a pleased smile begins to light up his face. Crowley can feel the gentle joy welling up in her chest at the sight of him. It’s always the same when she sees him, this subdued and yet bright feeling low in her chest that threatens to bubble to the surface and break free someday. She can’t help mirroring that smile, even if it comes out more like a smirk on her end.

Crowley quickly turns back around to the coachman, who is lazily leaning against the box and bathing his face in the afternoon sun.

“You’re dismissed,” she says and snaps her fingers, conjuring up a pouch of coins.

The boy looks up for a moment only and she tosses the money to him, before turning back to the marketplace. Aziraphale is hurriedly crossing the square, a horribly rustic reed basket clutched in his hands.

“Crowley! Fancy seeing you here. What brings you to the village?” he calls out a few paces away.

Crowley meets him halfway and raises her shoulders into a lazy shrug. “Was just passing through. Aren’t you supposed to be in London, though?”

“Oh, no, I’ve got an assignment in a city nearby, I’m just taking a break for now.” Aziraphale bites his lip a little and Crowley immediately realises that this break was not sanctioned by Heaven. “It’s...a rather time-consuming thing, I’m afraid. In fact, I left a few months back, shortly after you were dispatched to Vienna.”

Aziraphale twists the ring on his pinkie as he starts to cross the market square again and Crowley follows suit. She can feel the nervosity radiating off the angel, admitting to his little vacation stay that _almost_ goes against Heaven’s orders. She quickly tries to pick up the thread of the conversation again.

“Right. I just got out of an assignment myself, supposed to stay put, though. Much tempting to do around here?” 

“Not at all!” Aziraphale lowers his voice to a whisper. “The people of this village are the most virtuous I’ve ever seen, they hardly even need a blessing from me. Hardworking, generous, kind…”

Crowley snorts. “Are you posing a challenge to me? Because if so, I’m up to it.”

“I highly doubt that, Crowley. I don’t think it’s _possible_ to corrupt a single soul here.”

And there it is again, that self-satisfied smile, this expression that just screams of heavenly righteousness. It pisses Crowley off on most days but today she decides to take it as an incentive. Perhaps because she knows that Aziraphale will be a little miffed.

“Just you wait and see,” she mutters.

“So you _are_ intent on staying here?” Aziraphale asks and there’s a careful tone to his voice. It implies that there is more behind this simple question and Crowley immediately picks up on it.

If Crowley were to stay here, it would mean two things first and foremost: She could easily slip under Hell’s radar. There’s no way for them to know _where_ exactly she was when the message to stay put reached her. She could truly use this time off to lean back and do absolutely nothing for a couple of months, apart from maybe a minor temptation or two for sports. Call it a vacation if you will.

Secondly, she would get to spend time with Aziraphale, far from their usual bases of operation. Chances that Heaven would try to contact him in the middle of an assignment are low. They could spend time together without the farce of the arrangement that has slowly but steadily been painted all over their friendship, _quid pro quo_. Get your temptation covered, buy him lunch for it. Make a minor miracle happen and be invited to see a play. Flimsy excuses that don’t have to happen here, not if Crowley can coax Aziraphale out of his shell. The thought of simply _being_ around each other thrills her more than it should.

“Might as well,” she says and decides to go out on a limb. “I haven’t really got a place to stay, though. Any inns around the village?”

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. “An inn? Crowley, you can’t be serious, there must be _some_ standards you uphold!”

“If—say—a certain angel were to offer a different solution to my boarding problem, I would gladly take any suggestions.”

“You cannot mean to imply that I should offer you to stay at my house,” Aziraphale says, a slightly cautious and somewhat suspicious tone to his voice.

While this was indeed what Crowley had meant to imply, she knew better than to suggest it outright. However, she also knows that this tone of his is mostly for show and means something along the lines of _I’d be willing to consider this_.

“I never said that.” Crowley remains silent for a few moments, scrambling for something to say, anything that could possibly convince Aziraphale to ponder the idea. Nothing comes up. “Is it a nice house you’ve got here? Got any plants? Any windows facing South?”

“Crowley! You cannot think that this is in any way, shape or form, a wise thing to do. What if _they_ –” He cast a quick look guarded skywards and then to the ground. “What if they check, dear?”

“Neither of our respective head offices actually know we're here. They won't come checking in. Why would they? You're supposed to be in—wherever it is you’re supposed to be—and I'm lurking _somewhere_ in rural Germany as far as they know. They have no way of knowing we’re both here."

"Right. But that doesn't mean it isn't a stupid idea."

"Come on, angel, what could happen? Help me out here."

“I assume I could keep a better eye on your demonic work. Thwart you before you can succeed at tempting those good people. Keep your enemies close, and all that.”

“Hmm, yes, you _could_. Or you could try, at least.”

An uncomfortable silence falls between them. Crowley watches as Aziraphale draws in a shallow breath and stops in his tracks. His knuckles are white as chalk around the handle of his silly basket, and his posture has suddenly grown very stiff. This is it, the decisive moment. She can almost see the wheels turning in the angel’s head, weighing the pros and cons of the idea she has pitched, the dangers and the benefits he could reap. She remains perfectly still, not daring to influence this process of cementing the fragile seeds of a decision.

“I’ve never really shown anybody my lodgings before, far less invited someone to stay,” Aziraphale says a few moments later.

It’s barely there, the acknowledgement of what they are about to do, but Aziraphale has made his decision. He resumes their walk again, taking a decisive turn down a picturesque alley to their left. Crowley knows better than to thank him. There are things that should not, and therefore cannot, ever be spoken.

“I forgot to mention it before,” Aziraphale picks up the thread of conversation after taking a few turns in silence. “But the fabric of your dress looks rather lovely. A modern cut, isn’t it? Seems a bit overdressed to me.”

“Unlike you, angel, I realise which century it is. It’s called fashion, don’t know if you’ve heard of it.”

“Oh, please, Crowley. I am perfectly stylish myself. You know that my standards would never allow for anything else.”

He smirks self-contentedly. Crowley has known Aziraphale long enough to be well-acquainted with his ridiculous standards. Only the best for the angel; the most precious books, the most delightful food, the softest fabrics. He tends to keep those things for a long time, too.

Crowley mirrors his grin. “That’s only because men’s fashion hasn’t changed in decades and you know that. I’ve seen you wear this coat for twenty years _at least._ ”

Aziraphale doesn’t disagree but his suddenly very tight-lipped expression speaks for itself. For a moment, Crowley suspects that he might even cross his arms, but that would be too petulant, even for him. Instead, he just tugs the edges of his cravat and tailcoat back into place.

The silence between them is amicable enough now not to warrant a forced conversation. Instead, Crowley trails after Aziraphale as he leads on through a tightly knit net of streets and alleyways. It’s all very picturesque, small but tidy townhouses standing side by side with the occasional inn, stable or shop. Crowley spots a milliner and a bakery. The whitewashed houses around the main square slowly give way to yellowed façades and doors with chipped paint and yet, it is still the most quaint, charming thing she’s ever seen[2]. This entire village seems so _perfect_ , it’s almost eerie. Beautiful houses, cheerful people waving at them through the windows, _clean_ streets, imagine that! It almost makes Crowley suspicious, this inherent goodness that seems to pave every single alleyway.

Finally, another bright house comes into view, decorated with an oriel window and slightly crooked wooden panels. It stands freely, a few paces between its own front and the neighbouring building, right next to an emerald green lawn. And, just like every other thing in this village, it’s quite picturesque. Honestly, Crowley could imagine printing it on a postcard and making quite a lot of money with its likeness.

“Well,” Aziraphale says. “This is my house.”

He climbs the steps and raises a hand to carefully knock against the wooden front door before he suddenly turns and clears his throat.

“I should probably warn you, I do have a servant. She doesn’t live here but she helps keep up the, erm, façade of a human, you understand?”

“Hm,” Crowley agrees. She understands the idea well -- having a servant goes a long way to convince humans of certain things, like personal standing and propriety, the latter being the precise reason why she never bothered with one. Apart from the fact that humans are far less efficient than miracles, of course.

“She’s a bit– how do I best put it?” Aziraphale begins but before he can find the right words, the door is pulled open and a pale face appears.

For a moment, confusion is written across the girl’s expression, but it quickly changes to excitement; her green eyes widen and a cheerful smile flitters across her face, the perfect picture of goodly, kind-hearted small-town life. Belatedly, she adds a curtsey to her smile. Crowley immediately understands why this is the girl who Aziraphale trusts with keeping up the idea of his human life. She seems perfectly likeable.

“Luise, I’m afraid this is rather on short notice but we will have– a guest.”

“A guest!” Luise exclaims and her excitement seems genuine. Her thick, rural accent only serves to heighten the emotion of her voice. “How lovely! It will do good to have a lady around, Herr Fell, it’s a real proper household now. I am very pleased to meet you, Madame…?”

“Crowley. She’s…” Aziraphale glances unsurely at Crowley. “My sister.” Another inconspicuous glance, this time flitting across Crowley’s facial features. “In law. My sister-in-law, she is.”

Luise looks between them, a slight frown on her face. “Yes, of course, your sister-in-law. Of course.”

“Ah, yes, well. Glad we have that covered. Would you please let us come inside now?”

Crowley doesn’t fail to notice that there’s still a certain tension in the way Aziraphale holds himself, a rigidity to the slope of his shoulders that betrays his nervosity. He isn’t very good at coming up with impromptu plans and it really shows. Crowley would be surprised if the girl believes him, judging by the slight smile that’s still playing around the corners of her mouth.

The girl helps them with hanging up their coat and jacket and hands Aziraphale a bright blue banyan, which he promptly forgets to put on, caught up as he is with pointing out the particulars of the neighbourhood. Luise interrupts him after a few moments, seemingly hesitant to cut short his gushing about the bakery that _just makes the most Heavenly kipferl_ — _not that you’d care much for that Crowley_.

“Did you find the strawberries you were looking for, Herr Fell?” she asks and points towards the basket that has ended up on a wobbly, misplaced chair. “So I can make the jam?”

Aziraphale’s face falls for a moment. “I’m afraid not, my dear. I got quite distracted by the unexpected arrival of my sister-in-law—I simply ran across her in the marketplace, would you believe that?”

There’s a certain twinkle in his eyes that almost seems like mischief, or an insinuation, maybe. Perhaps he’s entertaining the thought that it might not have been an accidental meeting, and Crowley isn’t about to set it right.

“Quite rude of me to keep you from your _strawberries_ , of all things. How about showing me your house instead?” Crowley says and points down the corridor with her chin.

Aziraphale smiles proudly as he points out the different rooms of the little townhouse he is renting. There’s a parlour and a drawing room and a kitchen and what have you, filled to the brim with elegant furniture, soft cushions, and the kind of bric-a-brac that only Aziraphale could accumulate within the short span of the six months since they last saw each other. He is positively beaming with pride and Crowley has to bite back a grin at that. Few things compare to Aziraphale being content with himself.

“Well then,” the angel finishes his tour through the rooms. “That would be the place where I— _we_ will be living for the foreseeable future. Luise, could you show Madame Crowley to the guest room?”

Luise hurries to straighten her pinafore when she notices them both looking in her direction[3]. She curtsies quickly and beckons Crowley to follow her down the corridor to the staircase, stopping for a change of fresh linens.

There are just three rooms upstairs, two bedrooms and a bath, squeezed in under the tidy gable roof, whose heavy wooden beams are visible across the low ceilings. Crowley’s new chamber is very plain, just a bed, a chair, a commode, and a mirror nestled between beige walls. That should do, after all Crowley doesn’t plan on spending much time up here. And she shouldn’t even _think_ about making herself a home here, so it’s really for the better to live as sparsely as possible.

“I hope you find the room to your liking, Madame,” Luise says as she quickly moves to change the bedding. “It will be very nice to have _some_ female influence around the house, Mr. Fell is a rather scatterbrained man.”

He truly is. It’s visible all around the house, trinkets and knick-knacks lying around wherever there’s space, books left where they were last read, and cups balancing precariously close to the edges of all available surfaces.

“I can barely keep up with his chaos sometimes,” Luise continues as she folds up the dusty old linens, speaking her mind freely—how odd for a domestic servant. “Even if he is a very kind man, he knows nothing of husbandry or housekeeping. This place needs a woman’s touch.”

She casts Crowley a cheerful glance. Crowley doesn’t feel inclined to correct her but the thought of turning Luise’s hopes into troubles brings her a fair share of amusement. The idea that women are homely creatures has never made much sense to Crowley, not after seeing women lead wars, hold speeches, perform medicine, and create art just like men do. On the other hand, the idea that _Crowley_ of all people, and people-adjacent-beings, would be the ideal choice to run a household, on the other hand, borders on hilarious. Of course, she likes order and tidiness just like the next creature escaped from Hell would, but she knows nothing of tea sets and starched linens and flower arrangements and whatnot. That seems much more like Aziraphale’s domain.

“I am certain we will get along very well, Madame,” Luise says finally, shifting from foot to foot. Crowley has wondered how long it would take her to start noticing something off about her and show the discomfort that goes hand in hand with that first realisation. “Call me if you need anything. Otherwise, I will come around again at sunset to help you with your dress.”

“Yes, very well.”

Luise retreats, closing the door behind her. Crowley takes another look at the bland room and snaps her fingers. With a slight thumping sound, a wooden travel chest appears on the floor by the bed, containing the few possessions she has taken from her London residence. She quickly sifts through them, sorting out the few pieces of clothing she hasn’t miracled into being[4]. There’s also a very sorry looking plant and two pieces of art that she purchased during her assignment in Vienna.

She settles the plant and the etchings on the wooden commode, eyeing the thin-stemmed flower with displeasure.

“Don’t blame it on me,” she hisses. “If you’d grown better, I wouldn’t have stuffed you in the trunk. Always my fault, is it? You better watch what you think or you’ll join your friend[5].”

By the time Crowley is content with the state of her room (courtesy of a few miracles here and there) and her belongings, the sun is already setting, so she decides to call on Luise to help her with the unlacing of her stays. She flops down onto her bed shortly after, deciding to give her weary corporation a well-deserved rest and explore the place tomorrow, preferably with Aziraphale.

[1] It wouldn’t be a true letter from Hell without spelling her name the wrong way. At least, this one surprisingly managed an o instead of an a.

[2] Not counting a certain angel.

[3] Unbeknownst to Aziraphale and Crowley, Luise has been silently watching the two of them tour the house for the past half hour and come to two conclusions: Firstly, that Madame Crowley is an odd person indeed but that she likes her well enough, and secondly, that she finds the way the two of them interact with each other quite endearing after a first moment of confusion.

[4] There are very few garments that absolutely _should not_ be miracled. Crowley miracled herself into a set of stays a few months back and she could feel the pain of her squished torso for almost a week.

[5] Said friend had mysteriously disappeared back in Vienna. The only traces of it were the shards of a flower pot found in the courtyard below Madame Crowley’s window.


	2. Townsfolk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale shows Crowley the village and introduces some of his friends. Not everything is as nice as it seems to be, though.

_There is strong shadow where there is much light.  
_ _(J. W. Goethe, Götz von Berlichingen)_

_September 16, 1771._

Crowley wakes to the first light of morning, blindingly bright through the small window in the wall by her bed. As soon as she opens her eyes, a bolt of fear strikes her heart, sends shivers down her spine and lets the muscles in her back tighten. She doesn’t know where she is and that sets off her fight-or-flight response. The next moment, however, she remembers. The slight humming pain in her back stems from a carriage ride, not a fight[6]. She takes a look around the room—beige walls, low commode—and remembers. She’s at Aziraphale’s place, tucked under the blanket of her bed.

Right. That’s something that happened. _Cohabitation_. Good idea, Crowley, _excellent move._ The only problem is that fucking mess of feelings that a single smile from Aziraphale can set off. Then again, it’s only a few months at most before somebody down there realises that Crowley isn’t actually doing anything in the way of gaining souls for eternal damnation and she’ll have to move on anyway. She can make it through a couple of months, side by side.

She lays on the bed for another while, letting her thoughts wander. What _is_ there to do in a village like this, except for spending time with Aziraphale or spreading a little bit of dissent? Crowley’s never been a fan of riding, or fishing, or rearing livestock. Hunting can be complicated in this day and age, with how many woods are owned by some nobleman or another.

By the time the sun illuminates the room, there’s a knock at the door and Luise’s soft voice asking if she needs help getting dressed.

Twenty minutes later, with her stays laced over her shift and petticoats in place, she makes her way downstairs to the parlour. Aziraphale is sitting at the small table, sipping tea from a dainty porcelain cup. His hair is a bit mussed and he isn’t fully dressed yet, the perfect picture of an early morning. The soft fabric of his dressing gown, a blue banyan, wraps around his shoulders, brings out the strength and width of them. His curls are tinted golden in the sunlight, bright and soft. When he hears her steps on the wooden floorboards, Aziraphale looks up from the book laid out on the table and turns to smile at her. He’s soft and he’s beautiful and Crowley should stop that at once, she’s a demon, she doesn’t _like_ soft, domestic things.

“Good morning, Crowley,” Aziraphale chimes. “I was thinking about showing you the village today. The weather is nice for a walk, don’t you agree?”

“Huh?” Crowley says, immediately forgetting her resolutions.

Aziraphale gives her an indulgent smile while he pours her a cup of tea. Of _course_ his tea set is patterned with angel’s trumpets, white and green on sky blue. There’s a blessed doily on the table, too.

Aziraphale doesn’t pay her much attention, focusing on his book instead, so they drink their tea in silence. Crowley feels strangely awkward here, with the dainty cup in her hands and the angel by her side. She wonders how long it will take to get used to this, or if she could ever get accustomed to lazy mornings in company. There’s a world of difference between drawing comfort from a moment like this and trying to ignore the buzz of nerves which is definitely not travelling down her spine at this moment.

“There’s a handful of people you should meet, I think. They are absolutely lovely.”

“I don’t really go for lovely,” Crowley mumbles. “Doesn’t really fit in with being a demon, now does it?”

Aziraphale sighs and rolls his eyes, in a way that Crowley has learnt means _I wish you would get over yourself, dear_. He doesn’t object, though, which she will count as a minor success in their ever raging war of denying each others’ opinions[7]. It’s often the same thing, where one of them makes a statement so obviously coloured by their opposing, inherent natures and not their personalities, and the other battles against it. Crowley is never wrong, of course.

“Well, if you would excuse me for a moment, I will fetch my coat and then I can show you around the village. Luise!”

The servant appears just a few moments later, dutifully smoothing her white pinafore. She smiles at both of them, the perfect picture of a countryside maid.

“Madame Crowley and I will be going out today. I intend to show her the village, so you do not have to worry about lunch, but I would appreciate it if you could erm–” He casts a quick look around the room and lowers his voice. “Tend to the dishes.”

Crowley snorts at that. The cups are everywhere, some of them still half-filled with the remnants of tea or cocoa, sticking to the surfaces they’re balanced on. It’s not like Luise could hide the mess _now_ , since it’s an obvious part of the first impression anyone would get of the house.

Luise glances at Crowley with an expression that walks the border between mildly shocked and amused before returning her attention to Aziraphale, almost like an inside joke.

“Of course, Mr. Fell. They’ll be gone in a minute, I promise.” She pauses for a moment, bites her lip before she continues. “Will Madame be in need of my help to undress tonight? Or should I leave for home before you return?”

Aziraphale gives Crowley a look that says _I don’t know how this works, please help me out_ , so she clears her throat.

“That’d be great. Don’t think I could get the stays unlaced myself.”

Luise’s cheeks redden and she nods quickly. “Of course. Silly question, really, I’m quite sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Aziraphale says and clasps his hands. “Right then, I’ll fetch my coat.”

Luise remains behind for a moment and her face is still reddened. Surely a mistake can’t be that embarrassing, not even for someone whose purpose is to serve, nothing but a small misstep in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps it’s the talk about her undergarments. Crowley has come to realise that people are getting more and more stuck up about this kind of thing but that doesn’t mean she understands it.

The girl quickly turns and starts to collect the assembled teacups when Aziraphale re-enters, carefully arranging the cuffs of his frock coat. He’s humming a melody to himself, looking around for his gloves until he finds them under one of his countless books. They make him look quite formal, a little detached even.

Crowley somewhat mourns the loss of the blue banyan.

* * *

Aziraphale isn’t yet quite sure what to think of his current situation. When Crowley turned up out of the blue yesterday, standing before him in the market square, his feelings had decided to perform an impromptu somersault in his chest. His reason had left him alone, with nothing but an open heart and weakness for the mischievous glint in Crowley’s eyes. In retrospect, it is perhaps _not_ anywhere near a good idea to let Crowley keep him company but, as always, he has allowed himself to give in to her after a bit of convincing. He knows he shouldn’t do that, but it’s getting quite hard to convince himself that it was a bad idea.

He casts a careful look at Crowley. She’s still walking next to him in silence, hands stuffed into her dress pockets, apparently enjoying the last rays of late summer sunshine gracing her face. There’s really no other word for it, the way light and shadows play across her features. Aziraphale has always considered her strangely beautiful, no matter what form she’s inhabiting, but there is something special about seeing her on the small scale, far away from the bustling life of a town, letting go ever so subtly. There’s something about her, something that shakes Aziraphale to his core whenever he sees her and never quite lets him go again. He could feel it even this morning, when Crowley had come downstairs and settled in next to him for breakfast.

“Where are we going, then?” Crowley asks, still basking in the sunlight.

Aziraphale tears his gaze away from her face, trying to tell himself that he hasn’t stared at her at all. “Well, I would like you to meet a few acquaintances of mine. A few weeks ago, I ran across the most delightful man, Amtmann Salzinger; he’s a picture of country life. He has quite a large family, sadly widowed, though, a very kind man.” 

When Aziraphale was welcomed to the village a few months back, Salzinger had been the man to do so. He is a staple of the community, someone who cares about the newcomers and the misfits, and that’s a trait Aziraphale has always appreciated in humans. They’ve spent a few evenings together in the local tavern, talking about this and that. It’s nice to have company, someone to chat and play card games with.

“Kind and virtuous, eh?” Crowley teases.

“Yes, rather. l suppose he should be in town today, with the weather being this nice.”

“I’ve got a strange feeling that everything about this place is _this nice_ ,” Crowley snaps. Aziraphale is long used to that tone by now, it means that Crowley is either bored or annoyed, possibly both. “The weather’s perfect, the people are perfect, the houses are perfect, the grass is just a little greener.”

Aziraphale just smiles, not willing to indulge her snippiness. “Yes, almost spooky.”

Something shifts in Crowley’s attitude and she adjusts the sunglasses on the back of her nose. For a moment, she seems to consider what to say, then she settles for a neutral question.

“You’re sure this isn’t your doing? All angelic blessings and whatnot?”

“I am perfectly innocent. I do hope, however, that you won’t corrupt the lovely aura of this place. Now, listen, I know you need to do a little demonic miracle now and then, it’s your nature after all, and Hell surely won’t let you remain idle, but keep it to a minimum, please.” Even as he is saying it, Aziraphale notices how patronising that sounds, so he quickly adds: “If you could do me that favour.”

Crowley simply grins at him. “I believe I _could_.”

Aziraphale knows that expression well. It means that Crowley won’t immediately indulge him this time, instead, she will tease him until he gives in and changes his demands to something less imperious than please-don’t-do-temptations.

“I’m quite serious about this, you know,” he says. “You can have any other town, every traveller that passes through, but leave me this. I’ll leave you to do your work in peace somewhere else in turn. That’s the nature of our entire… arrangement, isn’t it?”

Even after centuries of doing this, it’s hard for Aziraphale to say anything connected with the Arrangement out loud. It’s not merely out of fear of being overheard, but naming things gives them power. It makes them feel too real, too imposing on the quiet, calm reality he has created for himself outside of Heaven, a reality that shouldn’t be tarnished by unspeakable things. Things that others would call Treason. With a capital T, of the first and most damning variety.

“Everything all right, angel?” Crowley asks. Her voice is so low that he might have missed it.

So he pretends that he has, only indicating with a swift twitch of the corner of his mouth that there’s nothing to worry about. Even then, the fact that Crowley _asked_ means the world to him. He couldn’t stand it if she was concerned on his behalf—which she would be, no matter how often Aziraphale has tried to tell himself that she wouldn’t, that a demon could not feel the same kind of compassion that has driven him to give a sword away, to share a jug of house brown in a tavern, to protect his wounded enemy from his own.

The marketplace comes into view, so Aziraphale forces himself to smile. He can already see some familiar silhouettes ambling around the stalls, playing with the children on the village green. Whenever he comes near this place, he can feel the love of the townspeople, threaded into the cobblestone over decades, spun in invisible lines from house to house, and it turns his smile into a real one. It’s the most glorious feeling in the world, the tiny individual acts worked together into an overwhelming wholeness of _being loved_.

Aziraphale glances at Crowley and even though she cannot feel it the way he does, he hopes that she can at least realise some of it. There’s nothing crueller than not being able to feel the love that surrounds you.

A familiar voice calls out to Aziraphale and a few moments later, a sturdy, grey-haired gentleman makes his way past a bunch of children playing marbles on the cobblestone. He smiles and waves before his eyes settle on Crowley and surprise passes across his face. Aziraphale is glad to see his village friend, of course he is, but he is also suddenly reminded that social interactions are indeed a stressful thing, especially where introductions are concerned. There are so many things one can do wrong in this century. He misses the easier times[8].

“Why Mr. Fell, I’ve never seen you with a companion! You must introduce me,” Salzinger says, with a polite nod of his head.

Aziraphale tries for a calm smile. That’s what people look like who introduce their absolutely-not-hereditary-enemy housemate, isn’t it? He wouldn’t want anything to slip past the carefully curated façade.

“Of course. Salzinger, this is Madame Crowley. She just arrived here from Vienna. Crowley, this is Amtmann Salzinger. He’s a retired district magistrate and a good acquaintance of mine.”

Salzinger’s weathered face breaks into a wide, pleasant grin. He bows politely to Crowley and gives her an approving look. Clearly, he thinks her a woman of the world.

“Oh, I am sure my daughters would love to get introduced at some point. There must be so many tales you can tell of the capital, they will be delighted!”

Crowley casts Aziraphale a look filled with mischief, as though she were trying to say _They’re asking for it! I can tempt them just a little, come on._ Aziraphale will not tolerate such shenanigans, not one bit.

“I am certain that Madame Crowley would rather enjoy a few quiet days to _rest_ ,” he replies pointedly. “This town is such a _nice_ place to lay back.”

“Well, perhaps it _was_ , not too long ago, but now! Alas!”

Salzinger shakes his head and Aziraphale raises his brow in question. After a momentary dramatic pause, the Amtmann continues in a hushed tone. “Haven’t you heard, Mr. Fell? It’s quite the scandal. You _must_ know I do not make such an accusation easily, but the vicar’s wife, … well, Mr. Fell, she truly is a vile person.”

Aziraphale can see interest pass across Crowley’s face at that remark and she leans a little closer. Perhaps he should grant her the vicar’s wife, if she is past saving already. Well, nobody’s ever _really_ past saving but some people just aren’t reasonable investments for angelic miracles[9].

“Oh dear. A vile person?” he asks.

Salzinger nods vehemently. “Yes! You know how sickly she is, at first I felt for her, quite so, but she rationalises everything, there is not an ounce of love or respect in her.”

It seems like an odd complaint in this oh-so-rational age of Enlightenment, but Aziraphale has come to understand that the humans are starting to see things a little differently in some regions. Where questioning and an analytic mind are appreciated in some places, others treasure piety and sentimentalism. He met a young man a few months back, who’d explained the concept to him: Emotion and empathy are what leads you to Good, and therefore, the immediate emotion of one’s heart is preferable to scrutiny and rationalisation.

“Would you imagine it, she has had the chestnut trees at the vicarage cut down!” Salzinger continues.

Aziraphale waits for a continuation of her vices, but he waits to no avail. While cutting down trees is not exactly a virtue, it’s not a sin either, but apparently, Salzinger feels quite intensely about this. Crowley passes him a glance that seems to say _those humans_ , and Aziraphale would be inclined to share that sentiment. Maybe even the slight grin that accompanies it.

“Dreadful thing, truly,” Aziraphale says, without any amount of conviction.

“Absolutely! Those trees were almost two hundred years old. They made it through the war back then, even though the marauders tried to cut them down for firewood. Imagine the entitlement, thinking you can just cut them down!”

From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale notices that Crowley has started to wander across the market, inspecting the goods laid out for sale. Salzinger follows Aziraphale’s gaze and clears his throat.

“Your… companion does not seem very interested in the issues of this town.”

Aziraphale snaps his attention back to him. “Oh, pardon my sister-in-law. She still needs to– erm—get familiar with the surroundings.”

“Your sister-in-law? Interesting. Were you married or…?”

“Erm… yes. My wife died a few years ago. She’s her sister. That’s why we have different names, you know. Now if she were my brother’s wife–”

“You also have a brother? Why, you never told me!”

“A hypothetical brother,” Aziraphale clarifies before he can get himself caught up even further in—well, it can’t really be called anything else—lies.

Salzinger nods, apparently happy with that explanation, although admittedly, Aziraphale still sometimes finds it rather hard to judge human reactions. “Well, I must be off then, get back to the young ones before Charlotte hurries off to her ball. You can be glad you do not have any children to look after, they can be quite the handful sometimes.” He gives a good-natured laugh. “We must talk sometime soon, from one widower to another.”

“Of course. Give my blessings to your children.”

Aziraphale hopes that this is enough to bring them a little relief and starts looking for Crowley. He finds her lingering by one of the half-timbered houses in a spot where the almost autumnal sun casts its far too swiftly fading light. He can tell from the angle of her head that she is watching the square, trailing one person, then another with interest. Aziraphale has always wondered whether demons could sense vices like angels sense love, or whether she just studied them the human way. It doesn’t matter in the end, seeing her caught up in her observation here. Who knows how long Aziraphale may have remained there, just looking, if it hadn’t been for the great commotion rousing the square just a moment later[10]?

A sudden crash echoes across the square and yells pierce the air. For a moment, all the life on the market square comes to a shocked standstill, as Aziraphale recognises the splintering of wood and the sound of something heavy falling onto the floor. He turns to find the source of the noise, a door being broken down at the other end of the market, and watches as a young man that strikes him as familiar makes as run across the cobblestone. He’s clinging to a bag. Bruises cover his hands and his shirt is torn where it came in contact with the splintered door. A few seconds pass and a young woman stumbles across the threshold, shouting for help.

It takes Aziraphale a moment to realise what is happening and to take action himself. He _does_ know the man, a farm labourer who has often rhapsodised after a few beers at the tavern about his hopeless love of the young widow who employed him, and right now he watches as the same man robs her. He summons a quick miracle to trip the man but he gets up far too soon—before any of the townspeople can reach him. Most of them are still frozen in a stupor, overwhelmed with the novelty of a _crime_ happening in their middle that they don’t know what to do about it.

Another moment and he’s gone, run off down the street that leads out of the village. Only then, the rush and the chaos truly begin. A few merchants leave their stands to run after the culprit, others try to help by calling out the details they have observed.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale mumbles and he rushes across the square to the threshold where the widow has fallen.

Several bruises are beginning to form across her face, slowly turning blue on her shock-white skin. Her cheek is bloodied where the ground has cut her and bright red scratches show on her neck wherever her fichu shawl has slipped out of place, leaving her shoulders and décolleté terribly uncovered.

Aziraphale kneels down next to her and carefully cradles her head so he can reach the bruises. Delicately, he passes a gentle hand over the darkening spots, spares a tiny miracle on each one to soothe the pain—it’s the least he can do. Her expression relaxes. Before the other witnesses can reach them, he seals the cut on her cheek a little, just enough to ensure it will not get infected without seeming suspicious.

“What happened?” the mayor asks, looking between the two with concern.

The woman’s voice is faint but she is strong enough to rise to a half-seated position. “He took the family heirlooms. I tried to stop him but he beat me with my broom, again and again.” She gestures vaguely towards the inside of the house, where a few tools lie scattered across the floor. “When I fought back, he tried to choke me.”

The mayor furrows his brow, looking in confusion at the widow. “I’d never have thought he— he liked you very much.”

“Apparently not,” Crowley’s voice sounds behind Aziraphale. “You can never know what people will do.”

The idea strikes Aziraphale very suddenly. It shouldn’t be a big thing and yet—that not only dissent but greed and violence have also found their way into the village on the same day as Crowley has seems more than suspicious. In the entirety of Aziraphale’s five-month stay there, _nothing_ of that kind has happened here, except for maybe a pitiful case of unrequited love and a summer storm. And to be quite honest, it bothers him, the thought that Crowley has _agreed_ to refrain from influencing the people and just an hour later, Aziraphale can feel the cracks forming in the picture-perfect veneer of the village.

The mayor extends his hand and together, they help the woman get back on her feet. Her legs are still wobbly and several of the townsfolk rush to support her, leading her back into the house. Aziraphale turns and looks at Crowley, but she gives a semblance of innocence—at least in as much as a demon _can_ seem innocent.

“Well, that went–”

“Don’t say it. I should have expected that from you,” Aziraphale says, ensuring that the admonishment in his voice is clear.

“Expected what from me exactly?” Crowley asks harshly.

Aziraphale huffs and turns back to the street leading in the direction of his house. His unusually quick pace is not enough to deter Crowley, however, and she follows just as swiftly, the sound of her skirt layers brushing against each other an ever-present companion.

“What did you expect from me, Aziraphale?”

“It’s quite obvious, isn’t it? Everything was fine, perfectly fine, until _you_ turn up. Are you trying to get through every sin in the book as quickly as possible? You _promised_ to do me the favour this time.”

Crowley pulls a face, clearly feeling insulted in her honour. “I didn’t. I didn’t promise. Nor did I cause that.”

Aziraphale isn’t satisfied with this answer, not in the least. There’s a sullen quality to it and Aziraphale doesn’t like that, it seems needlessly petulant to him. Of course, it could all be accidental, just a twist of fate, so he has to give Crowley the benefit of the doubt, but she doesn’t exactly make it easier.

“Well, I must admit I have no proof of… any intent on your side. Don’t think I’ll let you out of sight, though.”

That ends their conversation, or rather, an annoyed sigh from Crowley draws the conclusion. He doesn’t want to taint what they have here with an argument. Perhaps a few hours of silence would calm him down and the village would look brighter again tomorrow.

* * *

**Footnotes.**

[6] Carriages are awful, even if they’re miles better than horses themselves, but they always give her a soreness that takes a long time to go away.

[7] Outsiders might perceive this ritual as flirting by means of bickering.

[8] _The easier times,_ in this case, refers to a certain phase during the late first century BC when Aziraphale and Crowley ran into each other in Rome quite often. They never had to be formally introduced, since it was presumed that they either were friends already or were joined in hate to the point of stabbing each other on the streets, a rather common but dreadful occurrence during the 50s of that century in particular. It had been _quite_ a different social climate.

[9] At least, that’s what the Heavenly policy says. Aziraphale could quote the exact place, subheading _On the Salvation of Souls_ , paragraph 41. See also: _Virtue and the Creation of it_ and _How to proceed when the End Times are ahead_.

[10] Anyone with eyes could tell. He would have lingered as long as opportunity would have allowed, until Crowley would eventually have tired of watching out and noticed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated <3  
> The third chapter will go up next Tuesday, with another piece of art by WyvernQuill.


	3. Suspicions and Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley and Aziraphale make up and immediately come across more trouble in the village.

_To be misunderstood is the fate of the like of us.  
(J. W. Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther)_

_September 17th, 1771._

The next morning breaks in similar fashion as the day before, although this time around, Crowley is less shocked by her surroundings and more a bit surprised. While she hadn’t initially intended to go to bed, Crowley could see that it would be better to sleep off her displeasure towards the angel’s behavior than to let it turn into actual anger. The hours of rest have helped at least a little; she finally no longer feels the cramped muscles in her lower back, but that only relaxes her a little. 

She lays there idly thinking about things she could do today, finish that walk around the village, perhaps. They didn’t get very far yesterday and Crowley would like to see the more interesting facets of this place, the inn and the shopkeepers and the local curiosities. There must be some bonkers old lady or a melancholic artist-type that people are gossiping about. There always is in places like this. Aziraphale would know them, know the gossip and the truths behind it. Crowley hopes they’re on good enough terms for him to share. It can’t be that hard to believe in coincidence for once, can it?

Around mid-morning, Luise knocks softly on the door and brings a fresh bowl of water for washing. She looks very pale today and has deep rings under her eyes; even her hair is coming a little undone.

“Good morning, Madame,” she says faintly. “May I help you with your dress?”

Crowley agrees and Luise starts laying out the clothes, seeming somewhat distracted. This contrast between today and yesterday piques Crowley’s interest. 

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asks, less out of sympathy and more due to being nosy[11].

Luise looks away sharply, busying herself with the ties of Crowley’s stays. She wipes at her mouth for a moment, as though she were trying to stop herself from saying something she would later regret.

“Nothing, Madame,” she says and adjusts the straps on Crowley’s shoulders. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried, I want to know what’s wrong,” Crowley says. Sometimes, the truth convinces humans more than anything.

Luise takes a deep breath. She only continues to speak when her back is turned, collecting the skirts and the tie-on pockets. “It’s my mother, Madame, she has recently fallen ill. I don’t know what to do. She is… a complicated case.”

“Hmm, I see.” Crowley considers for a moment. She comes to the conclusion that she can allow herself a rare act of benevolence. “Have you told Herr Fell? He might know what to do, even if he’s not a physician.”

Aziraphale would certainly be happy to have a new opportunity for a charitable miracle. It’s exactly the kind of thing that would make the angel content, a swift, compassionate blessing that ticks all the boxes of angelic grace—helping the poor, healing, sparking joy in the ones that have rough lives, all that saccharine nonsense no-one in Heaven actually cares about. Maybe it would even sway Aziraphale into believing her that yesterday’s trouble was, for once, not actually Crowley’s fault.

“I will tell him then,” Luise says, a grateful smile on her lips as she ties the string of the pockets around Crowley’s waist.

“You can trust him, he’s got a lot of experience with that kind of thing.”

It’s not a lie, now is it? They’ve spent enough time around humans to know their pains and sicknesses.

* * *

When Crowley folds herself into one of the parlour chairs, a steaming hot cup of coffee is already waiting for her. She eyes it a little wearily. Maybe Luise wanted to show her gratefulness.

Aziraphale is already halfway through his breakfast, again with a book in front of him, but he isn’t reading it. It simply lays there, flipped open to an illustration of a bearded, run-down man sitting at the foot of a palm tree. The angel seems a little antsy but that is nothing unusual with him. His grip around the teacup is relaxed enough to show that it’s just a slight fluttering of nerves and nothing genuinely worrying. After a few moments of hesitation, he looks up at Crowley and sighs.

“I received a letter today and at first I thought it might be a heavenly missive. Who else would send me a message here, after all?”

For a short moment, Crowley is a little worried, seeing how Aziraphale is rubbing his fingers across his forehead, but it couldn’t be _that_ , he said so himself. Heaven wouldn’t know. Hell couldn’t know, either. There is nothing tying either of them to this place. Crowley clears her throat.

“What was it, then? Not Heaven, if I had to guess, or you’d have thrown me out.”

Aziraphale is not going to dispute that, how could he? They both know that there wouldn’t be any other option and neither of them would feel cross if he sent her away out of necessity. And yet, it still visibly upsets him, Crowley can tell from the rigid slope of his shoulders and the way the corners of his mouth twitch, even when he drops his steadying hand from his forehead.

“It was nothing, they simply delivered it to the wrong door.” A short unhappy laugh escapes Aziraphale. “I was genuinely worried I would have to go back to Wolfenbüttel today.”

“Wolfenbüttel?” Crowley asks, suddenly feeling as though she’s been struck by lightning. “Is that where you’re supposed to be?”

The question earns Crowley a sharp glance. Of course, Aziraphale would think it’s a jibe, directed at his unsanctioned holiday and all[12]. It’s not that, though.

“Yes? I am _supposed_ to influence a poet to write a play about virtue, but you know how humans are, they are far better at coming up with such ideas than I am. He was half-way finished already, actually.”

It’s accompanied by an innocent smile, but Crowley doesn’t pay it any attention. She is having a small revelation here.

“So _you_ are the heavenly agent!”

Aziraphale’s expression shifts into confusion. “The _what_? Of course, I am a heavenly agent, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Crowley.”

“Listen, I was also supposed to influence a poet, but make him write favourably about vices instead. In Wolfenbüttel.”

“What a coincidence!” Aziraphale calls.

Crowley considers that. “You think it’s a coincidence?”

“Yes, of course. If they–” he subtly points towards the ground, “–had known that I was working on this and sent you for that precise reason, why would they tell you to forget about it a week later? That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Crowley has to admit that Aziraphale’s reasoning does, in fact, make sense. The coincidence merely seems a little too odd to her, that they should not only influence the same person but also both abandon the mission in such a way that they both run into each other in the same sickly sweet village at the same time. Then again, she’d hoped that Aziraphale could be convinced of coincidences only half an hour ago, so perhaps she should suspend her disbelief.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m just starting to wonder if they have no-one else around here. It’s always me and you.”

“Well, I can only speak for Heaven, of course, but from what I gather, there _are_ a few other angels stationed in Europe but they are currently doing a– a _work-force efficient restructuring_ , as Gabriel called it. I presume it’s chance, with the others being busy.”

“And you’re not part of that _work-force efficient restructuring_?” Crowley tries her best to imitate what she imagines to be a pompous angel manager’s voice. It doesn’t seem to work, since Aziraphale merely cringes a little.

“Sometimes I think that Gabriel just… forgets about me.” Aziraphale notices that Crowley is about to make a comment[13] and he quickly continues. “I’ve been around for such a long time, it’s an understandable oversight. Oh, and there are the Observers, of course, it wouldn’t do to forget about them. You have them in Hell too, don’t you?”

“We do. Wouldn’t compare them to the likes of us, though.” Crowley thinks about how to phrase this for a few moments, then she realises that it’s all in vain, a better expression doesn’t come to her. “They don’t really have a free hand to do what they want, you know? Very strict on the miracle policies.”

It doesn’t lack a certain irony, calling themselves free, as though they’d ever been truly _allowed_ to do what they wanted, the angel especially, but there’s a good many decisions they _can_ make themselves. It’s so much more than the ever-watching Observers can do. They’re by far the lowest rank, below the disposable demons even.

“I imagine it’s very similar to Heaven then,” Aziraphale says. “The observation angels aren’t supposed to use any frivolous miracles at all, lest they be noticed by humans or, well, demons, for that matter.”

“Exactly.”

A moment passes in silence and Crowley reaches for her coffee cup. Aziraphale finally returns his attention to the book in front of him and flips the page, picking up where he’d left the story of Robinson Crusoe. It seems that everything is all right once more.

* * *

_Seems_ is the keyword.

A little later in the day, Aziraphale asked Crowley to join him on a trip to the shoemaker. In the rush of Crowley’s arrival, he’d almost forgotten about his favourite pair of slippers waiting to be repaired. Funny, how nothing matters when you’re occupied with a friend.

At this very moment, they’re standing in the shoemaker’s dainty little shop, waiting for the assistant to return with the right pair. Crowley is studying a set of fine black riding boots, running her fingers over the material appreciatively.

The bell over the door jingles and a young woman in a bright white dress with little red ribbons spread across it enters. She smiles brightly at Aziraphale and moves to greet some of the other patrons wandering around the shop. It doesn’t escape his notice, how the humans’ appraising looks are immediately drawn towards her, as though she had a magic aura around her that makes her impossible not to look at. She’s like a ray of sunshine.

“Fräulein Charlotte!” the solitary other human woman in the shop exclaims. Even she can barely contain her smile at seeing her. “How is your father?”

Charlotte takes the lady’s hand, a soft and reassuring hold. “He is doing very well, thank you.”

The ladies exchange a few more words, then Lotte crosses the room towards Aziraphale, still smiling kindly. He notices that Crowley eyes her a little wearily. There’s an innate goodness to Charlotte that obviously makes the demon uncomfortable.

“My dear Herr Fell, my father told me about your sister yesterday. I am so glad to see you here, Madame Crowley, I was rather excited to make your acquaintance.” She curtsies politely, which Crowley responds to with a short nod. “Charlotte Salzinger.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

Charlotte seems a bit taken aback at Crowley’s less than polite answer, but she smiles through it nevertheless. She’s undeterrable, which, funnily enough, is a quality that both of them should admire. Nevertheless, it feels somewhat uncomfortable when directed at oneself.

“Well, my father has told me you are quite a woman of the world! I would be most grateful to hear some of your tales—I imagine that the capital holds many marvellous wonders!”

“Yes, it does,” Crowley says and then with an undertone of sarcasm: “More than you could imagine.”

Lotte’s smile brightens, apparently not catching on to the shift in Crowley’s tone. “Lovely! I hope that Herr Fell will excuse your absence for an afternoon, the invitation to my father’s estate stands.”

She curtsies again when the assistant appears, quickly hurrying off to hand over a pair of shoes that needs to be repaired. Once more, gentle smiles follow her around before she finally leaves the shop.

“Isn’t she charming,” Crowley says, deadpan. “Ray of sunshine, eh?”

She returns to the boots while Aziraphale walks up to the counter. His slippers are already waiting to be inspected, a very solid repair work. Two patrons waiting behind him begin to gossip about Charlotte, as Aziraphale has come to learn a lot of people do.

“Haven’t you heard? That miserable sod is hanging around their house again. Even when Fräulein Charlotte went to pick up her fiancé, he went and bothered her family. Never mind he has said that he’d leave and never mind that she would never give him a chance…”

Aziraphale sighs. At some point, everyone would tire of this gossip and even angelic patience couldn’t make it less of a bore. The miserable sod in question is a young man called Werther, who apparently had been a rather pleasurable fellow when he first came to the village a year ago. However, for the last five months Aziraphale had spent in the village, he’d found him to be a melancholic, _very_ exhausting young man.

Perhaps, just perhaps, there’s one thing in this village that wasn’t perfect all along.

“Some attempted seduction, eh?” Crowley asks when they exit the shop, Aziraphale holding a newly restored pair of slippers while Crowley sports some newly-miracled boots.

“Nothing serious,” Aziraphale says. “It’s more along the lines of yet another young artist considering himself a star-crossed lover.” He clicks his tongue. “Not that I truly believe in star-crossed lovers, but it seems to be quite a fad this century.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at that. “That why you dragged me to see Romeo and Juliet? Multiple times, actually.”

Aziraphale doesn’t deign that worthy of an answer. He could argue about Shakespeare’s works being more touching than any of those “failed artists” could ever be, about the merits of theatre as an art form, about love not being the wrong thing, not if it’s _real_ love, the kind that brings a gentle joy, not a short-lived emotion-filled fire of infatuation.

“Would you look at that,” he says instead, distracting himself from the reasoning of his own mind. “A black sun hat. Quite defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

“Not if the purpose is style,” Crowley mumbles but then she takes a closer look at the milliner’s shop window. “I take it back, it defeats that purpose too.”

Aziraphale smiles. He knows that Crowley has always considered herself rather modern, fashionable even, but Aziraphale would be inclined to disagree. There’s always been something over-the-top to her, be it jewellery or fabrics or patterns. Or perhaps it is her character shining through every movement of hers, that seemingly careless approach she has perfected so well. Even now, the gilded snake belt accentuating her waist is glimmering in the afternoon sun, like a taunting reminder that she will always be a flash demon, never quite the refined human she tries to pass as. Too much gold, too much black and a blood-red dress.

No, she’s nothing like the bland hats of a countryside milliner’s.

A young boy stumbles past them, tearing open the shop door and calling out to the milliner: “Father! Come look at that, there’s a fight down the street.”

“I don’t think so Friedrich, we don’t have fights in the streets here, this is a respectable town.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at Crowley. _Now isn’t that an odd coincidence_. She doesn’t pay attention to him, however, listening with tightly drawn brows.

“There’s definitely something going on, don’t you hear it?”

And with that she turns and makes her way down the street. Aziraphale tarries for a moment, unsure whether he should follow. It would probably be for the best, not letting her out of his sight.

“Now, come, Crowley,” he calls out, but she’s already several paces ahead. “There’s no need to meddle in those humans’ affairs.”

If he doesn’t find out about what is going on, he won’t be able to make a connection he doesn’t want to make. Not knowing can be the most blissful thing in the world and Aziraphale far prefers it to the ideas that could involve Crowley in any of the suspicious happenings around the town.

She turns and spares him a quick grin, spreading her hands in a gesture of _isn’t it obvious_.

“I thought that’s all we’re supposed to be doing—meddling.”

Admittedly, she isn’t exactly _wrong_ , but that doesn’t mean that Aziraphale approves. And yet, he follows. Indeed, by the time he reaches the next junction, he can clearly hear a man’s angered voice, subdued shouts ringing through the alleys. It’s easy to track them, since they’re accompanied by further commotion, and just a few moments later, he nearly stumbles into Crowley’s back. They’re surrounded by about a dozen people, spectators to an almost ironically picturesque scene. It could be lifted directly from a genre painting.

A young woman in deranged clothing is standing in the street, cobblestone under her bare, dirty feet. She is only half-dressed, the shift undergarment slipping down her shoulder, barely held in place by half-laced stays and a crooked petticoat. A man is leaning out of a window above her, face red with anger.

“I will _not_ let you come inside, no!” he yells. “You _deserve_ it, it’s your own fault.”

The woman obviously doesn’t take very well to that. “You are _humiliating_ me in front of our neighbours–”

“I’m humiliating you? Really? That’s nothing compared to the humiliation you brought upon me. Can’t you even _deny_ the adultery for appearance’s sake?”

Oh. It’s not what he had expected at the idea of a fight on the street, but it’s discomforting enough, intruding on this conversation meant to be private. Aziraphale takes pity on them both, so he snaps his fingers and a small miracle later, the crowd disperses, people suddenly remembering other places they’re supposed to be right now.

Aziraphale casts a swift look at Crowley, meaning to urge her to leave with him, but something is off about her expression. There’s an odd concentration painted across her face, almost like she is looking out for something. It lets an uncomfortable feeling rise in Aziraphale’s stomach, a doubt he desperately seeks to quell. He attunes his senses to work more precisely, looking for any trace of demonic influence, but the only things he can feel are the lingering clarity of a bright angelic miracle and Crowley’s ever-present, sulphuric aura. He curses himself for his own foolishness—if it weren’t for his own miracle overlaying everything else, he might have caught the whispers of a temptation. Or, preferably, a lack thereof. He doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something that seems to distract him, both now and yesterday at the marketplace.

“What’s with the funny look?” Crowley asks, pulling Aziraphale out of the labyrinth of his thoughts[14].

“I’m not– I never give anybody a funny look. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Aziraphale turns on his heel, ignoring the sound of a flower pot breaking behind him. One miracle is enough for this couple. He knows himself well enough. A second miracle would lead to another and yet another until a reconcilement is facilitated, resulting in a report that would make it very obvious that that is what Aziraphale is doing. Gabriel surely wouldn’t approve of rectifying the wrongs done by adultery. There’s no effort that way, nothing to pay for one’s sins, no incentive to better oneself.

It’s a huge difference between helping out a human, motivated by a charitable thought, and leading them on the way to righteousness. Even if Aziraphale _potentially_ doesn’t agree with that, there are limitations to being one of Heaven’s angels.

“You do though,” Crowley says and in the first moment, that startles Aziraphale. “Something wrong with my face?”

Aziraphale spares her a confused look and well, if it lingers on the lines of her face, framed by her fashionable half-up, half-down curls, so be it.

“Obviously not,” he says.

Crowley only smirks at that, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “So it’s not some guilty bastard’s face?”

It’s a question he doesn’t particularly want to hear, doesn’t want to think about anymore. Especially when Crowley puts it like that, it feels like an openly-laid trap. He tries not to fall into it, but it’s not exactly his forte, avoiding the bits of trouble that Crowley brings with her. Not that he believes Crowley would consciously cause him any harm by that, but she’s a demon, after all.

Aziraphale takes a deep, fortifying breath. It takes courage to say certain things, doesn’t it?  
“I trust you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Crowley’s expression turns sincere and harsh. “You shouldn’t ever say that.”

And isn’t that an answer? Not trusting her should be the route to go but there’s always some reluctance in Aziraphale’s heart. The resolve to trust her is still feeble but it’s there—has been there for a while, really.

Aziraphale is not sure if he’s convinced of anything. Adultery and violence and pride, altogether things that shouldn’t be an issue in this picture-perfect village, suddenly arrive the day Crowley does, but they’re also human things nonetheless. They can always happen, be it coincidence or temptation at the source of it. He knows Crowley’s jabs and teases well enough, knows her low-grade evil too if he’s honest with himself. It’s not easy to make up his mind, decide what it is this time around. Maybe he can just avoid thinking about it and hope that the next time something happens, his senses will pick up on a possible demonic influence. He’s grown too accustomed to Earth, to Crowley, whatever else it is that has dulled his perception.

“Let us go back,” he says, weakly. “What would you say to having dinner?”

The dinner question has never sounded so unenthusiastic before. Aziraphale still prefers it to any other question he could ask her.

**Footnotes:**

[11] Demons aren’t known for sympathy, but they are well-known for sticking their noses into anything and everything that has _Mind Your Own Business_ written across it in big red letters.

[12] Not that they’d ever get any other kind of holiday. Either you work or you’re in retirement, which in Hell’s case means getting chucked into the deepest pit of boiling sulphur. Crowley doesn’t know about Heaven, but she doesn’t imagine their retirements to be more comfortable.

[13] Something among the lines of _that wanker Gabriel_.

[14] Aziraphale is well aware of the difference between a maze and a labyrinth. In a labyrinth, the way leads on and on, to a place at the heart of it, meandering along, whereas a maze will only lead you astray. However, Aziraphale is not aware of the fact that at the centre of the thought labyrinth in question, not an idea but a name has taken residence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta-read by D20Owlbear and Thyra279. Sorry for the delay, I had some problems embedding the art.


	4. Read Me in a Single Glance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dance at the village inn takes a turn for the worse. This time, Aziraphale and Crowley come to a clear conclusion.

_Daring ideas are like chessmen moved forward. They may be beaten, but they may start a winning game.  
(ascribed to J. W. von Goethe)_

_September 21, 1771._

A few days pass without further incidents and Aziraphale notices how that calms him. It’s altogether rather nice when one can forget one’s worries and spend some time with, well, uncomfortable as it is to admit it, a friend.

It’s an odd harmony they’ve settled into, living together at the comfortable townhouse. Aziraphale keeps an eye out for possible demonic interventions, of course, but for three days, he has seen none. He has worked a miracle or two himself, after Luise confided in him about her afflicted mother, but for the most part, he has simply enjoyed the switch from the final days of summer to the tentative beginnings of a warm-coloured autumn. Leaves are starting to tint and fall. The air is turning crisp with the smell of nightly fires being lit.

With the change in weather comes a cold breeze and the possibility of a storm, nothing unusual in this area, but Aziraphale has learnt that even such natural inconveniences tend to avoid this place that’s slowly starting to seem perfect to his mind’s eye again. Perhaps Crowley was right; calling it an unfortunate coincidence would be the proper reaction. He rests comfortably with that knowledge. There’s something about this life that lulls him in, the steadiness of something good surrounding him.

It begins with breakfast, this mellow life. A steaming cup of tea waits for him in the morning, set out on a dainty doily, always just the right temperature. Slices of bread and cheese accompany it this time, carefully prepared by Luise who is smiling again after his last miracle. It’s serene.

He can hear the tell-tale rumbling of Crowley coming down the creaking stairs, a fixture of his mornings. Even when they spend the night sitting up together in the parlour, she will help keep up the facade of humanity and let Luise help her dress. There’s a certain pattern to her steps, starting from the moment she lets the door to her chamber fall closed, continuing down the stairs and to the breakfast table.

Aziraphale looks up to give her a polite smile in greeting, although it turns more cordial than he intended[15]. Crowley grumbles something that might, at some point, have been intended as _Good morning_ , but now lacks the majority of its vowels.

She’s quite a vision during those soft mornings, hair and clothes done up, but her chin is still resting on her open palm like she could fall asleep right then and there. There’s something unguarded about her face, something almost gentle. It makes Aziraphale feel tender, even if he doesn't understand why. Demon’s shouldn’t ever evoke tenderness.

He notices that Crowley is watching him as he cuts his cheese and tastes the first slice, a slight smile on her lips. When has this become a fixture of his life? It must have been centuries ago, maybe since that first night in Petronius’ restaurant.

She takes a sip of tea and grins at him.

“We could stay up tonight, get properly drunk again. The German beer’s supposed to be good, right? What do you think?”

Aziraphale doesn’t take long to consider. It’s really been far too long, hasn’t it? “That could be arranged, yes. We could walk down to the inn, get a few bottles of their wine and beer and bring them back with us. If we send the girl away, we can even start early.”

“How decadent, drinking in the afternoon,” Crowley says, a teasing smirk on her lips.

“Oh hush, you vile creature, you suggested it after all.”

There’s no bite to his words, just a friendly tease as usual. It’s nice, just sitting there and chatting about the different things they can do later in the day. Aziraphale starts to maintain a list in his mind, adds bottles of wine and beer to it, maybe some ginger cakes if he can get the innkeeper’s wife to share some again. He might keep a book at the ready or a card game, depending on how drunk they intend to get and how long Crowley will keep him company.

“Let’s do it then,” Crowley says as soon as they’ve finished their cups of tea. “I really want to see this inn of yours. Bet it’s just as righteous as the rest of this blessed village.”

* * *

Aziraphale notices the music long before they enter the inn later that afternoon. Merry tunes mix with the cool breeze, causing an air of happiness to settle over the streets. He can positively feel the glee of the people rushing through his own veins. It’s overwhelming, how much the citizens adore their town.

Laughter rings bright in the public room, mingling with chatter and the jaunty tune. The innkeeper’s wife catches sight of them and waves them over to the small counter where they keep their alcohol safely stowed away from the merriment of the patrons.

“My dear Herr Fell!” she calls out. “How good to see you again!”

Crowley smirks at him, clearly amused at the fact that, wherever he goes, Aziraphale is always a welcome guest at inns and public houses and restaurants. There’s no shame in that though—well, unless one were to ask _Gabriel_ about it.

Aziraphale grants the innkeeper’s wife an angelic smile, the kind that immediately brightens anyone’s day. Sometimes, he just can’t help it.

“Why thank you, my dear. I was wondering, do you still have a few– what’s the word?”

She looks at him in confusion, so Crowley cuts in. “ _Flaschen_? Bottles? Some bottles of beer and wine.”

“Yes, that. Language, ha! I keep forgetting words.” Aziraphale almost blushes with the embarrassment of that admission, but humans’ different quirks of speaking and their ever-evolving languages are sometimes rather hard to keep up with.

“You should hear his garbled excuse for French,” Crowley teases.

“Oh, but I don’t intend to hurry over to France anytime soon, so I should be faring just fine.”

The innkeeper’s wife glances from one to the other, suppressing a grin. Instead, she bends over to reach for a notebook, taking down a few numbers and a symbol that refers to Aziraphale’s open bills. He’ll pay them before he leaves, add a nice tip to it. There’s benefits to befriending humans like this.

While the innkeeper’s wife takes a few bottles and puts them aside to collect later, her husband returns from the attached storeroom with a new box of bottles, greeting Aziraphale happily. He passes him his usual drink and, after a moment’s hesitation, hands over another for Crowley.

“You never told me you have a wife,” the innkeeper says, nodding conspiratorially at Crowley.

Aziraphale gives him a polite but noncommittal smile. “Oh, that’s because I don’t.”

The innkeeper raises an eyebrow at that and returns to his bottles[16]. Crowley tries the beer and it draws an appreciative nod out of her. She seems to be in high spirits this afternoon, judging by the slight upwards curve of the corners of her mouth.

The inn is brimming with the energy of several dozens of people, joyously mingling with each other. Another quick, jaunty tune washes over the room and although the off-key instruments make the sound slightly dissonant, nobody seems bothered. While some sit squeezed in closely at the tables, drinks in hand, others are spinning around in the centre of the room, holding each other closely at the shoulders and the hips.

Aziraphale is genuinely surprised that nobody bats an eyelid at the proximity of the dancers. Never mind how often he’s frequented the inn in the last few months, he’s never managed to observe one of their dances in full swing. In finer society, such an indecency would not pass unnoticed but countryside manners are different, more lax and free than in the confinement of the ever-modern, oh-so-noble cities or the lofty courts. Some days, though, he can feel the change in the air, people breaking free from their constructed traditions, and Aziraphale suspects that at the end of the day, the ideas roaming in the countryside will wash over the city and take it by storm.

It makes him feel a mellow excitement, watching the merry amusement of the people around him. It’s infectious, this happiness of theirs, and there’s no reason for Aziraphale not to feel happy himself.

“Care for a dance?” Crowley asks, drink still in hand.

She isn’t looking at him. Instead, she’s carefully observing the dancers, the way their feet scurry over the worn wooden floor, how their hands come to meet and part. For a moment, Aziraphale can feel the tempting aura of the dance, the music flowing through his veins and the movement tugging at his heart, beckoning him to join. He shakes his head, tries to find his footing again.

“Oh, Crowley,” he says, a rejection stronger than he intended. “You know that angels don’t dance.”

Crowley looks at him now, considers for a moment before she reaches her decision. She sets her half-emptied drink on the table next to the counter and clears her throat.  
“Well, I guess I’ll have to ask somebody else then.”

“I suppose you must. I am dreadfully sorry about that.”

And he is. He notices the small, melancholic regret that settles over him at the missed opportunity when he watches her go, picks up their drinks to search for a free table. Crowley is making her way towards a man lingering by the dancing crowd, and in the course of their short conversation, Aziraphale can see his face light up with joy. He offers Crowley his arm and leads her to the end of the line that has started to form at the first notes of a new song. Couples stand opposite each other in long rows, clapping along to the music. The ones at the ends are moving towards each other, jumpy steps combined with swishing dresses, before they meet in the middle and spin, holding hands. It lacks all the refinement of the courtly dances, but the couples are enjoying themselves so very clearly that Aziraphale can’t help approving of it.

Crowley stumbles through the steps a little, following the lead of her partner and the other ladies, but she looks like she’s having great fun herself. What she lacks in skill, she makes up for in enthusiasm. A slight smile lights up her face as she spins and returns to her former place. It’s really true, isn’t it, that dancing gives people the opportunity to be free, to enjoy themselves without inhibitions. Aziraphale finds himself wishing that he could be there with her, revelling alongside the humans, but the thought is against his very nature. He’s glad that Crowley can have that moment, though.

A young man in a blue coat and bright yellow waistcoat slides onto the bench next to Aziraphale and the angel sighs. He’s supposed to be charitable, merciful, a good listener, all that Heaven-issued corporate guideline stuff, but the sight of this particular person makes him wish he could evaporate into a cloud of dust and feathers instead.

“What is it, Werther?” he asks, mentally preparing himself for another tangent on how unfair the world is.

“Nothing. It’s really nothing, except for my poor heart breaking into pieces once more. Do you not see Charlotte dancing—dancing with her cold, unfeeling fiancé?” Werther sighs wistfully and Aziraphale would almost feel pity for him if he hadn’t been listening to the same sentiment for five months already.

“I’ve told you, Werther, you have to let her go. There is nothing you can do to win her. Don’t make everything worse.”

Werther isn’t listening to him, though. His gaze is focused on Charlotte, laughing happily at the other end of the room, leading a line of ladies in the dance.

“She is a pure angel,” he whispers.

Aziraphale feels it like a stab to his heart, can almost taste it on his tongue, the bittersweet surge of unrequited loving that accompanies these words. It pains him and he quickly looks away, tries to shake it off but to no avail. As he watches the dancers, the feeling simply remains there, resting under his skin like the faint cries of an owl in the night, unsettling and yet undeniably an unshakable part of existence that can ultimately cause him no harm.

When the dancers rotate once more, he meets Crowley’s gaze and smiles. It’s a familiar comfort and it lets the feeling disappear for a moment, replaced by the grin he receives in answer.

“Don’t you think a pure angel deserves someone who wants to gift her the whole world?” Werther whispers.

Aziraphale snaps out of his momentarily distracted thoughts. The melancholy feeling of disappointed love turns wistful as Werther sighs next to him. He wonders, not for the first time, how the young man can radiate such strong emotion. Perhaps it’s the warring unhappiness and love that are tearing him apart.

“Werther, let me be quite frank for once: _I_ think that she has already found that person. Why make her unhappy?”

Werther looks at him for a moment, a shocked expression on his face. Every trace of wistful smile, of melancholic frown fades and turns into offence. With more energy than Aziraphale would have thought possible, Werther jumps to his feet.

“How _dare_ you say that! I don’t make her _unhappy_ , it’s her fiancé who does. You’re oh-so-holy, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale has to exert a rather large amount of self-restraint to hold back a _as a matter of fact, I rather am_. As it is, he merely gives Werther a tense smile. The young man won’t have it though; instead he storms off towards the dancers and all but grabs a girl’s arm to drag her to the end of the row.

The dancers part and switch places, stepping up and down across the floor. Crowley passes by Aziraphale’s table once and she smirks. Happiness suits Crowley so well, as does the light flush of exhaustion[17]. If they were close enough to talk, Crowley would probably tell him _See? It’s not that bad_.

And that is precisely when things go awry.

As the music starts to fade into its final accords, Aziraphale notices a strong, unsettling energy that wells up in the middle of the crowd. It’s stronger and at the same time somehow more detached than it should be under normal circumstances and it makes Aziraphale’s skin tingle with discomfort. A few humans shiver, obviously picking up on it too.

A demonic temptation, clearly.

Aziraphale’s gaze flicks to Crowley, whose steps falter as she looks around the room. There’s a tense line across her forehead and she lets go of her dance partner’s hands, but it’s too late. He catches a glimpse of a leg, stretched out in a deliberate fashion. The next moment, a tall man—Aziraphale recognises him as Charlotte’s fiancé, Albert—trips and falls, straight into the many folds of a young girl’s skirt. She yelps in shock and stumbles back, hitting another girl.

“Oh dear, are you alright, Albert?”

Charlotte’s voice is fraught and she bends over, extending a hand to help her fiancé back to his feet. The next moment however, the other girl’s partner pulls Albert to the side and starts shouting at him, but his accent is too thick for Aziraphale to understand what he is saying.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Albert exclaims as the other dancers slowly come to a stop, nervously observing the two men. “I was tripped, sir, believe me!”

There’s an enraged shout of _Bastard!_ and the man with the thick accent flings himself at Werther. His hands fist into the fabric of Werther’s waistcoat, tearing him away from his partner. Just a moment later, the first blow falls, striking Werther right across the face.

An uproar of outrage waves through the crowd of patrons and the musicians stop playing. Albert steps in, pulling the aggressor’s shoulder in an attempt to restore the peace, but at this point Werther retaliates, stumbling forward and pushing the three of them into a group of ladies. Within moments, several more people get involved and either try to bring the two - three - several parties of brawlers apart or exact physical revenge for a wrongdoing.

It all happens rather quickly. Aziraphale sees the blows of several people’s fists, watches as others stumble into each other. A dress tears and a lady trips, hitting her head on one of the tables. None of the patrons seem to care, though, so Aziraphale snaps his fingers and ensures she will not endure grave injury.

He can feel a certain anxiety crawl up his spine. His gaze is flickering across the room, still trying to find either a familiar face or a strange one, both demonic in nature. He _saw_ Crowley’s reaction when the energy shifted, when a small but effective temptation swept over the room. He has seen the surprise there, how rapidly she dropped her dance partner’s hand.

People are moving around quickly and Aziraphale loses the grasp he had on the situation, not remembering if he has seen the faces before or not. There’s nothing that seems off, no strange marks, no odd bodies, no clearly misunderstood idea of human clothing. Instead, he sees hands tearing at hair, legs kicking in every conceivable direction, scratches and bleeding noses.

Suddenly, a hand clutches at his coat and Aziraphale flinches.

“Let’s get out of here,” Crowley hisses, her fingers curled unforgiving around his shoulder.

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment but there’s not much he can do. Yes, he could start working several more miracles and end the brawl, but it’s more effort than he should be putting into this, especially if he wants to fly under the radar. The last thing he needs is a polite inquiry from Gabriel, asking why he is using several pacifying miracles when he should be hunched over a poet’s shoulder, twisting his words into ultimate virtue.

He picks up the bottles the innkeeper set aside for them and casts a final look around the room. It’s chaos and it’s spreading and the next moment, Crowley is pulling at his arm, dragging him out of the inn behind her. The green lawn is undisturbed outside, the greying sky far too calm.

“They’re gone,” Crowley says, her voice wavering on the edge of irritation. “You _must_ have felt it—happened right in front of our eyes.”

Crowley is breathing hard, and her cheeks are slightly tinged with a red flush of anger. Her hair has come undone in several places, red tangled curls falling across her face, and the onset of a bruise is forming on her chin. She seems distressed about the situation, hiking up her crumpled skirts to walk away faster.

Aziraphale has rarely seen her like this, so dishevelled and tousled. Maybe after a night of drinking or once, back when he’d run across her after the entire Golgotha debacle[18]. It gives Aziraphale this odd, fuzzy feeling that makes him want to wrap her into a warm blanket and put her back together again, and that’s a dangerous feeling. Something that should never be connected to a demon.

“Angel?” she snaps at him. “You did feel it, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale is pulled out of his reverie and has to refocus for a moment. “I– yes, I did. There was definitely– somebody else.”

He hurries to catch up with Crowley, who is already halfway across the village green. She glances over her shoulder and checks for humans, but none have followed them out of the tavern. A quick snap fixes her hair, another her tangled skirts. Carefully, she runs a hand over the sensitive skin of her face, where the angry red of the bruise is tantalising them both, a reminder not only of what just happened, but also _why_ it did. The skin ripples a little, like a quick shudder passing through it, and returns back to its normal, unblemished state.

“I can’t stand it when that happens,” Crowley says, running her hand along her chin a few times more.

Aziraphale knows what she means. Healing minor injuries often leaves behind an uncomfortable feeling, like the skin has been pulled at for a little too long, or a slight, prickling burn. Nevertheless, it’s better than wearing a bruise on one’s face—that kind of thing often raises discomforting questions.

A few moments pass in silence, and they are approaching Aziraphale’s house quite quickly, as though putting distance between themselves and the problem would make it easier to solve it. It still makes his skin tingle, just thinking about the demonic energy he felt at the inn.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what is happening,” he says, carefully broaching the subject again. “Well, on the surface it is rather obvious, but the– the particulars confuse me.”

Crowley seems to ponder this for a moment, judging by the inclination of her head and the furrowed line of her brow. They reach Aziraphale’s door before she makes up her mind, so he fumbles for his key, juggling three bottles of beer, far too delightful to be left behind, in his arms.

Luise suddenly pulls the door open, resulting in Aziraphale almost dropping the beer. She glances between them quickly and immediately notices that something is off. Gingerly, she takes the bottles out of Aziraphale’s arm and carries them off towards the storage chamber, and she doesn’t return.

Aziraphale bites his lip—as if that would stop the conversation from having to happen.

“I will make us both a cup of tea, that’ll do nicely. Should we reconvene in the parlour, then?”

* * *

Aziraphale settles into the wing-back chair, carefully arranging the cup in his lap so it doesn’t spill over. The insistence with which he avoids eye contact with Crowley is almost as meticulous as the handling of his tea. Crowley’s foot taps against the floor, her heel scraping against the hardwood. She knows how much this bothers him, but she’s impatient and it might get him to talk.

“Will you stop that?” he finally asks, and he sounds a little weary, so Crowley indulges him. “What I don’t understand is– how did I not notice what was going on? I should have _seen_ something.”

He rubs a hand over his eyes and sighs. Crowley waits, in case he wants to add something she considers rather obvious, but he doesn’t.

“Possession?” she says.

Aziraphale looks up at her again, gently shaking his head. “Humans _are_ rather good at spotting that, aren’t they? I don’t believe that a possession could have escaped the entire village’s knowledge.”

“Yes, but what if they didn’t _do_ anything with it? Takes a while to get adjusted in a human body.”

Crowley doesn’t know if she believes that herself—that someone would possess a human and just sit around, doing nothing. Just… idly waiting for _something_ to happen. The other alternative, of course, would be a far more uncomfortable thought: That another demon was sitting it out in this village, barely exerting influence, biding their time until something fell into place. Or someone, maybe.

“What–what if that’s not it?”

“You mean, not a possession? Might not be, of course, but most demons don’t exactly have a subtle appearance, do they?”

“You do,” Aziraphale says, distractedly. Crowley casts him a look over the rims of her tinted glasses, yellow snake eyes meeting a perfectly normal hazel. It doesn’t seem to register with him, though. “However, that is not what I meant. Surely, your idea must be discussed too, but I was thinking—what if they don’t wait and don’t use their influence for Evil, but rather for a– an imitation of Good?”

Crowley hesitates for a moment, letting that idea sink in. It has happened, occasionally, that a demon takes an opportunity to cause harm via something masked as goodness and goes with it. She herself has worked her fair share of blessings, even if it took her years to learn how they could be channelled through her demonic miracles. So while the idea seemed odd to her at first, it is definitely a possibility.

“Yeah, I suppose so. Do you have any… suspicions?”

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment. Instead of answering the question straightaway, he takes a sip of his tea and then another.

“You’ve met Lotte, haven’t you?” he says. “Salzinger’s daughter.”

Crowley snorts. “Of course I’ve met her, a _real_ ray of sunshine. Doesn’t seem particularly demonic to me.”

A slight frown passes over Aziraphale’s face, and she can tell that he is trying to phrase his theory in a way that Crowley will understand, a way that stands a probable chance at convincing her.

“She’s _too good_. She always knows the right thing to say, never slips up or shows any disgruntlement. Humans don’t act like that. People positively flock around her, like she is some– some magnetic field that they cannot escape. Haven’t you seen how many of them are under her spell?”

Crowley can’t help the grin that spreads across her lips. She puts her feet up on the chaise longue, comfortable in this topic since she _knows_ Aziraphale is miles off.

“Yes, I’ve seen that. I’ve seen her too, though.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and Crowley can see that his anxiety is slowly fading, getting overruled by the onset of an exasperation. If the topic wasn’t so important, she could imagine seeing his _I’m too tired of this argument to continue_ -expression. She’s always liked that particular one.

“Gosh, angel, you can really be daft sometimes,” she says and smirks. “You have a _dramatic_ lack of appreciation for the female form.”

“Just because I don’t choose it for myself often that doesn’t mean that I am oblivious to its charms. Or, rather, the charms it has to the human mind.”

“For my money, that’s the reason why people want to get on her good side. Besides, I was as good as next to her during that dance—wasn’t her who influenced the people.”

“You could have said so earlier,” Aziraphale huffs. “Although you haven’t quite convinced me yet that she’s genuinely infallible. I have seen her around the village for five months, and she has never failed to be the picture of decorum.”

“Let’s get back to what I said before: What if it’s not a possession. Perhaps there _is_ another demon and they noticed that you and me are also here. Might be avoiding us by setting up base outside the village. Or it was just an accident and we both arrived here at the same time.”

Aziraphale pauses for a moment, looking down at his cup as if it holds any answers for him. “That’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think so?”

“It’d explain why you didn’t notice them before, though. Unless they’ve managed to fly under your radar _and_ waited for me to arrive here.”

This time, a longer silence falls between them and coats the entire parlour with an uncomfortable atmosphere. Crowley can feel the prickle of apprehension in the back of her neck, knows that Aziraphale can feel it too, judging by the way his shoulders tense. The realisation hits them both at roughly the same time, and Crowley can’t tell if that makes it any better or strengthens the discomfort of it.

It’s Aziraphale who finally has the courage to say what they’re both thinking.

“Do you think that _all_ this can be coincidental? That you and I arrive at the same village, avoiding the same missive, and that with you another demon arrives, who is _clearly_ very good at escaping both our notice. Regardless of whether they fooled me or arrived after you, it seems rather unlikely that this is an accidental series of events.”

Crowley swallows hard. It doesn’t dislodge the single word that is blocking her throat. Damned thing, swirling around her mind too, as if a single residence within her corporation wouldn’t be enough.

“Seems so, yeah.”

Aziraphale nods, a short and decisive motion. He sets down the teacup and clears his throat. There’s something iron-hard about the set of his shoulders. 

“So. What do we make of this? Two assignments, the same village and another demon. Is there a possibility that your assignment was figmented?”

“Figmented? Why?”

“To get us in the same place, of course. Once again, it’s quite a coincidence that you were stopped and told to _Stay put_ just outside the village, isn’t it?”

Crowley must admit that he is right. The way the missive had appeared in her Viennese chambers was a bit unusual, something off about the way it was sealed, but that kind of thing happens from time to time, whenever they get a new intern in the mailroom because Satan knows what slip-up the previous one has committed.

“Now, the question is, why would anybody do that?” Aziraphale continues. “Lure us into a trap—quite an idyllic one if I may say so—together?”

“Are you saying it’s about us?”

“Clearly.”

“ _Shit_.”

They simply look at each other for a couple of seconds, but that’s enough for both of them to know that the other is thinking the exact same thing. It doesn’t bode well for them. To the contrary, actually.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale says. “If it weren’t about us, there would be no reason for them to hide from _you_. Quite the opposite, it would be rather favourable to contact you. Two demons against a single angel, what a tempting chance.”

“‘s not– argh, forget about it. Us demons don’t walk around trusting each other, is all.”

“Quite. So we must presume that this scheme was set in place to keep us here because…”

“‘Cause of the Arrangement, yeah. So they know about it, and—if I had to guess—they’re trying to frame us here. Get some good proof of our... agreement.”

That’s probably the best way to put it. There’s other words for it, words that Heaven and Hell would probably find themselves able to agree upon. Starting with a capital T and ending in the deepest pits. Crowley briefly finds herself wondering if she’d find any old acquaintances there, down in Hell’s basement.

Aziraphale casts a wistful look towards the door and Crowley doesn’t like that. She’s known him long enough to know that the fight or flight instinct takes very different shapes in the two of them.

“Maybe… we could just leave? If both of us stay here, it would only give them an opportunity to find out more about us.”

“Don’t think leaving is a good idea.”

“Crowley, it’s obvious as anything that we’re not really enemies!” Aziraphale calls, suddenly agitated instead of nervous. “Have you ever given some thought to how humans perceive us? We seem like– like old friends, not like we despise each other.”

“That doesn’t change that there’s someone here who knows about the Arrangement, though. I have no clue how they found out, but I’d very much like to have one. It’s a bloody disaster, that’s what it is, and I won’t go before it’s fixed. Permanently, preferably. Can’t have a demon running around telling people that I’m in cahoots with an _angel._ ”

See, on any usual day, Aziraphale has a certain flush of redness in his cheeks. Most humans do too, so it’s only fitting that his corporation tends to show that healthy blush, or whatever they call it. Crowley has thoughts of her own about it, on how infuriating it is, especially in combination with a certain smile. Now, however, every trace of it is gone. The blood has drained from his cheeks, leaving behind the ghastly pallor of shock.

“I see,” Aziraphale mumbles. He clears his throat. “Then we must set out to do our best to ensure that there is nobody who can tell. And soon at that, preferably. Once word gets out, all Hell will break loose, quite literally.”

“And Heaven too, at that. Do you have any idea how to go about this?” Crowley asks.

She can feel the weight of that realisation bearing down on her, how it suddenly leaves her feeling entirely drained of energy. Of course, it’s always been a possibility, that someone would find out, that a rumour would be spread, and that they’d both get to feel the consequences of their own actions. Crowley has imagined it sometimes, coming home to find a missive on her desk, or running into the likes of Ligur while she was in friendly conversation with the angel, unable to make up a solid excuse. Now, however, she pictures cold and slimy hands grabbing her shoulders and dragging her out of the parlour, down into the mildewy pits of Hell, entirely unwelcome and damp, before Beelzebub and their cronies. She can’t stand the idea of Hastur grinning down at her, chuffed that he was right, that Crowley was shite at being a demon, because for some twisted reason, that’s one thing angels and demons apparently have in common: You’re only doing well if you’re mindlessly loyal and that’s something Crowley has never been good at.

Aziraphale is running a hand across his face again, clearly tired, even if his corporation doesn’t show any further signs of it.

“I don’t know. I’ll try to come up with something, but for now I would suggest that we both abstain from using our powers. It might make it easier to– feel a shift when they’re near. When they’re working a temptation of their own.”

Crowley doesn’t like that idea, not one bit, but she has to agree that it’s the best approach they can take for now.

“Sounds reasonable to me. Shake on it?”

Aziraphale takes her outstretched hand with the slightest amount of hesitation, but his grip is firm. It feels steadier than anything has in the past hours, a small thing that ties her to the here and now. It gives her a little hope, hope that she shouldn’t have. Part of what makes her a demon, isn’t it, that inescapable hopelessness?

When Aziraphale lets go of her hand, a small smile graces his face. He leans back into his chair and seems a little relieved. _That’s worked out nicely_ , he is probably thinking, or something along those lines.

“What do you think, should we open a bottle of beer and continue racking our brains tomorrow?”

That doesn’t sound half bad to Crowley.

**Footnotes:**

[15] It has been a common occurrence far longer than he’d like to admit. It started at some point during the Roman Republic, when recognition turned into joy and courtesy into genuine kindness.

[16] The reader can imagine the innkeeper’s thoughts to be somewhere along the lines of _Full of surprises, that Mr. Fell._

[17] The image will accompany Aziraphale for over a century, in day dreams and during the occasional fitful sleep. He will dream that he could have accepted the offer, known what it would be like to enjoy this merriment together. Maybe, one day, it will lead him to try the Gavotte.

[18] Not that it _was_ a debacle, of course not, it was the necessary course of action, as Heaven had informed him in a rather unfeeling manner. The only way for humanity to reach salvation and all that. Medieval scholars had explained it to him in rather great detail, how the death of Christ was a glorious sacrifice, and how the Fall of Man was a necessary stone on the way to Good triumphing over Evil. Crowley had a good laugh about that one.


	5. Gossip and Counsel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley and Aziraphale investigate.

_And yet! To be misunderstood is the fate of our kind.  
(J. W. Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther)_

_September 24th, 1771_

Crowley is convinced that over a couple of millennia, she has learned to understand humans quite well. She knows how their brains work, knows what their worries and fears are and what makes them happy. It seems that she forgot one thing, though, and that’s how suspicious humans are of each other. Send them a demon in all their devious glory and they’ll immediately strike a bargain, but try to get _one_ piece of gossip out of them— 

Anyway. The past few days seem to have brought her a little further down the lane of investigating the other demon’s presence. She has found out that no other carriage arrived in the village that day, but several riders were seen passing through the main road. It had been a nice day, perfect for a bit of light travelling, which proved less than useful for her questioning.

The day before, she found an elderly woman working her spinning wheel in one of the shadowy streets, sitting on a stool in front of her door. She’d introduced herself as Old Sophie, and after a few minutes of conversation, it was quite clear to Crowley that any piece of information could be pried out of her wrinkled hands in exchange for a bit of wine. Consequently, Crowley is on the way to her house with a bottle under her arm and some brioche for good measure. Aziraphale has had something to say about both of the things she’s nicked from the pantry, but Crowley brushed him off easily enough.

Old Sophie is sitting in front of her slightly run-down house again, enjoying the faint rays of late September sun. She smiles a toothless grin when she sees Crowley approaching with food and drink and pats a stool next to her.

“Good morning, Madame!” she calls out. “How kind of you to bring me this.”

“‘s not kind—just a welcome gift.”

“No, dear, that works the other way around! I would have visited you, but Mr. Fell never told me he would be receiving a permanent guest! My knees, you see, they aren’t what they used to be and I need someone to carry me over.”

“I imagine you’ve got a lot of newcomers after the summer? Settling back in after a _grand tour_ of the countryside.”

“Not at all! There was only one other lady, no new residents arrived all summer. And young Werther returned here, of course.”

“Yeah? What’s his deal, anyway?”

“Oh, he’s a very melancholy young man. He came here last spring to enjoy himself a little but, alas, when he returned from his position as an adjunct to some ambassador or another, he was changed entirely!”

“What about the other lady, then? Who is she?”

“You’ve probably heard about her.” Here, Old Sophie lowered her voice in a show of propriety, but there was an almost vicious twinkle to her eyes, proving that she was enjoying this piece of gossip more than anything else. “The _adultress_.”

“Ohh, yes, I’ve seen her.”

Crowley doesn’t even have to ask. The story is too good to pass it up, or so it would seem. The words trip from Sophie’s mouth without the slightest bit of demonic influence. The village may seem nice on the surface, but Crowley knows schadenfreude when she sees it.

“She came here in August, to marry one of our local boys—Teubner, he’s the shoemaker’s apprentice—and I can’t say that anybody particularly liked her. She was quite snotty, thought she was better than the rest of us,” Sophie says with conviction[19]. “The next thing you know, she’s caught during a rendezvous with the baker’s apprentice!”

“Were there no signs of it beforehand?”

“Usually, you’d see those things coming from a mile away, but not this time. It was the same thing with Peter—of course, everyone knew that he was madly in love with Madame Steiner, but he was a simple farm labourer, what was he to do except pine after her? Nobody would have expected him to rob her and harm her because she wouldn’t answer him.”

Provided with context, both incidents are perfectly explainable via a simple _humans being humans and humaning around_ (as Crowley has so aptly put it in earlier reports), but the unexpectedness of the occurrences seems like a definitive pointer towards her fellow demon. What she does not understand however, is _why_ they are doing it, drawing a bunch of attention to their presence that she’d want to avoid if she was in their shoes.

“What are the two of them doing now? Have they left the village?” Crowley asks. Perhaps the results are another clue to store away for later.

Old Sophie nods and sighs, as though she’d regret the circumstances instead of delight in the gossip. “Both of them, yes. There was no way for them to stay—one of them disgraced, the other in fear. Poor Madame Steiner!”

Crowley notes to relate this knowledge to Aziraphale and claps her hands. Her work here is done. “Well, this was fun talk, but I have to take my leave.” She rises and rearranges her clothes, before adding a not at all heartfelt: “I suppose I’ll see you around.”

Old Sophie babbles on for a moment before imploring her to return soon. Crowley gives a promise she has no intention of keeping and considers where to try next as she wanders through deserted streets. She has yet to find someone who can tell her more about the riders passing through on the day she arrived, but that’s easier said than done when you have no description of the person you are looking for apart from _looks like they just crawled out of the deepest pits. Maybe._

* * *

The village green is full of life. Chickens stalk around in search of worms and breadcrumbs. The fabrics merchant has laid out his newly dyed cloth to dry. It’s bright red and still mostly yellow indigo-blue, a gradient of colour that shines darkly in the sun. Droplets of water are clinging to the threads, reflecting the light. Crowley can smell the biting odour of the indigo dye that is still clinging to the fabric but will soon fade. A couple of children are playing a ball game, strictly supervised by their parents. It seems like a small thing, and yet it’s such an apparent change, how closely the adults watch their children.

A tiny boy kicks their ball in Crowley’s direction and it hits her against the shin. It doesn’t hurt her but the boy looks very intimidated. His eyes are wide with fear, as if she would start yelling at him any given moment. That’s food for thoughts, isn’t it? Another bit of the village’s beautiful façade crumbling away.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Madame,” the boy says. He is looking at the ball laying at Crowley’s feet, clearly too afraid to pick it up.

Crowley bends over and clutches the ball, weighing it in her hands as though she were considering whether to hand it back or not. The boy bites his lip anxiously. Maybe this situation can be used to her advantage.

“Tiny person,” Crowley starts. “I’d be willing to return your toy if you can help me with something.” The boy tries for a small smile and nods. When she begins to toss the ball from hand to hand, his brown eyes follow its track. “Nine days ago, somebody came to this village. A stranger.”

“Yes, Madame, that was you!” he calls, face bright with excitement.

“Yes—I know that was me, but there was another one, yeah? Think about it. Someone you don’t know?”

The boy shakes his head at first, but then he considers, tapping a small finger against his chin. “There’s only the post.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow—this might be of interest. “The post? What do you mean, the post?”

“That’s a man who brings you letters and parcels.” He’s beaming with joy, as though he’s proud to have an opportunity to explain something to an adult. “Sometimes parcels, but letters mostly. He has a horse.”

“I know what the post is, kid. Was there anything off about the postman? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” She’s starting to get a little impatient.

“There’s a new postman, Madame. Is he in trouble?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he is. You can have your toy back.”

She tosses the ball towards the boy and he scrambles to catch it in his tiny hands. Another small, polite smile passes across his face before he turns and runs off towards his friends. Well, that was rather unhelpful. A new postman might be an unusual occurrence to a child, but it’s not the kind of thing Crowley is looking for. She considers what to do next, who would trust her enough to tell her a couple of secrets without the need for a demonic miracle.

“You don’t have a hand for children, do you?”

The fabrics merchant has stepped up to her, a grin on his face. He’s rolling up a panel of cloth, as though that would hide the fact that he’s been listening to every word of her conversation.

“They’re like… small adults with fewer skills.”

“That’s what I thought too, before I had children of my own. They’re marvellous things, but you have to handle them differently—that’s the modern approach, you know? Anyway, you seem to have many questions—I might be able to help you put your mind to ease.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Our old postman died unexpectedly a few weeks ago—slipped and fell in the ravine nearby, it was quite a tragedy. He didn’t live in the village, but it still upset the children. That’s why Sebastian asked if the new one’s in trouble.”

Crowley considers this for a moment. It seems unlike any of the other demonic interventions around the village, and it happened too long ago to be confidently ascribed to their mysterious demon. Accidents happen.

“Pity, isn’t it?” Crowley says.

“He was a good man. Others here aren’t, but he was.”

The merchant quickly looks away and binds a string around his fabric, keeping it firmly in place. It’s clear that he regrets voicing that particular sentiment.

“Others aren’t?” Crowley asks, trying for an innocent tone. “Anybody I should know to avoid?”

“You know, it’s not exactly in good form to arrive somewhere and start asking questions about other people. I trust Mr. Fell’s judgement, but it hasn’t escaped my notice how you’re going around, asking and asking. You’re making the people suspicious. It’s not good for the village.”

He walks over to his table again, putting down the cloth and exchanging it for another. Crowley bites her lip. It wouldn’t do to bite back, she knows that, not if she wants to get another piece of information. For a quick moment, she considers using her powers—just a little bit of Suggestion—but she recalls the agreement she and Aziraphale have made only too well.

“I simply wanted to know if there is anyone who I should avoid,” Crowley repeats. “To—protect my reputation. Ensure that no-one needs to be uncomfortable.”

The merchant shakes his head. He doesn’t even turn to meet her eye. “I shouldn’t have started to gossip—almost as bad as Old Sophie, me.”

Her fingers itch with the want to fix this via miracle, but she can’t. For all she knows, the other demon might be following her, already planning on their next move. Crowley can’t stand the thought of messing up a future chance at obtaining information, not if she might gain his trust with time.

“Hngh—well, then. Have a good day.”

She turns and ponders the possibilities she has for the rest of the day. The sky is turning grey at the edges. It seems like rain will soon fall over the village, although Crowley doesn’t feel too sure about that yet. The weather has indeed been unreasonably nice so far.

Perhaps she should just go back home—not home, to Aziraphale’s place. They could compare notes, maybe that brings them some insight they wouldn’t gain without sharing their knowledge. She’d be willing to bet that his inquiries went better. People trust him more easily on principle—something about his angelic nature shining through as opposed to Crowley’s demonic one—even though they often find Aziraphale’s introversion rude while they deem Crowley polite. That is—until she starts to ask questions, apparently.

It would be a good idea to put their notes together and weave them into a bigger picture. Their different approaches to the problem could work to their benefit. With that thought, Crowley makes her way back to their joint house.

Little does she know that the information she needs is sitting right under her nose.

* * *

There are three things that one needs to know about the village priest:

His name is Wilhelm Meyer.  
He is a rather kind, if somewhat bland man.  
His kindness is rendered almost entirely obsolete by the harsh rudeness his wife carries into the world, and is often applied to him too by proxy.

Aziraphale has spoken to him rarely but those three facts struck him as apparent on the rare occasions of their conversations. He is not particularly keen on asking him questions, but it would have been a very daring idea to send Crowley his way, letting her interrogate a priest about the presence of demons, especially if Meyer is any good at this part of his professional duty.

He knocks tentatively at the parsonage’s door, waiting for Meyer to answer. It doesn’t particularly help him calm his nerves, being left hanging outside. He can hear the priest and his wife arguing over the weather. For a moment, Aziraphale allows himself to see the cracks in the picture-perfect impression he has painted of the village: There’s aggression and there’s envy and there’s schadenfreude. He quietly hopes that it is a side-effect of whoever has it in for them and not a fault in his judgement. God knows he’s had many of them, little faults and bigger ones, but he wants to be right for once, wants to have found a place on Earth that’s as good as it’s supposed to be. A blessed place, where hope is left for everyone.

Meyer finally opens the door and gives him an odd look over his small pince-nez. He’s still dressed in a housecoat, although it’s past lunch-time by now.

“Mr. Fell, I did not expect you to stop by. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Aziraphale fidgets for a moment. He hasn’t considered his phrasing yet. “Might I come in? I have a few questions regarding—regarding virtues and temptations.”

Meyer nods and ushers him down the dimly-lit corridor into his study. It’s an uninvitingly sparse room, fitting for a Lutheran countryside priest. The parson’s wife sets a tray of fruit and tea on the table between them, and then they’re left with an uncomfortable silence filling the room.

“So, Mr. Fell, what can I help you with? I doubt that a man like you needs a guided reading of the Holy Bible to figure out his standing.”

Meyer is, of course, correct in his assessment. While he does not know that Aziraphale was, quite literally, present when some of its books were written, he has gathered his impression from the few conversations they’ve had—about charity and mercy and supporting the poor—and came to the conclusion that he was talking to a man of faith and considerable virtue. Either way, Aziraphale doesn’t need anybody to explain the Bible to him.

“Quite so,” Aziraphale says and decides to stumble head first into this conversation. “I’m afraid this is terribly forward of me, but I rather found this village lacking in virtue over the past weeks. It did not use to be like this, did it? Or have I, by some oversight of mine, never realised its flaws?”

Meyer leans forward in his chair and rubs his hands together. The question has strung a chord with him, and the plethora of thoughts that are flashing through his mind are outlined on his face.

“I understand your concern and I find myself to be in agreement with you,” Meyer starts, carefully. “It _is_ an unusual series of misfortunes and I cannot find an explanation for it. No place is entirely free of sin, as we were all born in sin, but this village has never struck me as particularly inclined towards vices. Quite the opposite.”

“Just what I thought. And you have no… suspicions as to why this sudden change is happening?”

“No firm ones,” Meyer says, taking a break to clean his pince-nez on his sleeve. “However, I have noticed that, over the past fortnight or so, a number of people have seemed unusually agitated. As though something was in the air that unsettled them.”

“An unsettling influence?” Aziraphale asks and he tries to keep his voice as neutral as possible. He knows how quickly he can sway people in one direction or the other, even without necessarily intending to.

“Yes, indeed. A few have even expressed their concern, which I cannot talk about further, as you will understand it was shared in confidence.”

Aziraphale nods and reaches for a cup of tea. He will have to be clever now, since he doesn’t want to scare off the poor human with the truth, but he needs to find out if he has an inkling of the demonic presence in his village. Get him to talk of his own volition, that is the plan.

“So when you say that an _unsettling influence_ is behind this, you mean…?”

Meyer hesitates for a moment. It seems like he is inching closer to sharing something that concerns him.

“You see, there’s three different kinds of influence. Human influence, most obviously, which is at least partially responsible for such clusters. When one woman commits adultery, her friend will rather be inclined to follow the wrong path than if she herself stays virtuous. Then there is natural influence—people become more anxious when crops are failing or when the weather is concerning, leading to unhappiness.”

Here, Meyer stops. He picks up a small knife and begins cutting one of the apples laid out on the tray into slices. There’s a slight tension in his hands, and the blade scrapes across the silver with a screeching sound. Aziraphale feels inclined to point out that his comment about adultery is rather out of place, but he doesn’t want to ruin the momentum that Meyer is in—it’s a conversation that will have to follow another day.

“Well, my dear Meyer, you mentioned human influence and natural influence, but there still remains a third…”

He could almost swear that a blush creeps its way onto Meyer’s face, slowly rising into his cheeks.

“If you exclude both the human and the natural sources… well, there’s only one thing that remains, really: the supernatural.”

Aziraphale puts down his tea cup and pretends to be scandalised, just a little. With a tiny gasp. Like the idea of the supernatural has never occurred to him before but he would be willing to be convinced if Meyer’s arguments are solid enough.

Meyer clears his throat.

“You must believe me, Fell, I am a rational man. Yes, I know, it’s a funny line to say for a priest in our ever-questioning day and age of _Enlightenment_ , but I believe that, aside from the mystery of God, there is little that we cannot try to explain with our own minds. Demons, however, and Satan for that matter, are very, very real indeed. I do not jest where these topics are concerned.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, part of his little act—and oh, is he enjoying the role he’s taken on. He’ll have a good laugh about it later. “Demons? That is indeed no laughing matter. You can’t actually be implying that—that there’s a demon in this village.”

Meyer shifts in his seat and clasps his hands in his lap, knuckles white and tense. “I cannot be _certain_ ,” he says. “But it is a possibility.”

Alright, maybe Aziraphale _is_ influencing the priest a little, but Meyer’s doing so well, getting out of his shell. He’s starting to be susceptible to the idea of discussing a demon.

“Hypothetically speaking—” Aziraphale begins, still careful. “What would you do against a demon? Could you spot them?”

Meyer hesitates for a moment, breaking a slice of apple in half. “I think I could. There are… certain signs. It’s… complicated.”

“But you could do it?”

“Yes. I believe so. And before you ask, yes, I know a little bit about how to exorcise one. I might have to consult my books, but I believe it possible. Allegedly, holy water is enough to cause them severe damage, but I find that hard to believe.”

Meyer seems uncomfortable as he leans back further into his chair. Not only his hands are folded, but his arms are crossed. It takes Aziraphale a moment to realise that he is overstaying his welcome. Maybe it’s his obvious amusement at the idea of holy water not being damaging to a demon.

“Well, that’s… that’s quite something to think about,” Aziraphale rises and follows Meyer back to the front door. “Thank you for your help. Can I consult you in case—in case anything of a troubling nature should occur?”

The parson sighs but he nods nonetheless and shakes Aziraphale’s hand. “Yes, feel free to consult me. That’s what a priest is there for, isn’t it?”

* * *

When Aziraphale enters the parlour, he is greeted with the view of Crowley sprawling forebodingly across a chaise longue. He didn’t know that people could do that before, but then again, Crowley isn’t exactly _people_. There’s a deep line drawn across her forehead, right above the edges of her polished glasses.

“How’s it going, Aziraphale?” she asks, in a languid tone that does not fit her expression. “Had a nice chat with the priest?”

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Somewhat. Imagine, he tried to convince me that demons are, in fact, real.”

That draws a chuckle out of Crowley. She swings her legs off the chaise longue and they come to rest on the floor with a clicking sound, where her heels meet the wooden boards, and a swishing of her skirts.

“Alright,” she says. “Let’s compare our notes. Metaphorical notes, didn’t write anything down.”

Aziraphale nods and wanders across the room, searching for paper and a quill. It’s not too late to take down notes now, is it? He’ll make sure to burn them, when all this is over. When he has gathered his supplies, he settles in at the small desk in the corner, where he can just so keep an eye on Crowley.

“Good, so, I talked to the parson and he informed me that he has picked up on… a strange influence around the village. He confirmed that none of the people who were presumably tempted were previously noted for sinful behaviour.”

“Yeah, I heard something similar. Mind you, it’s only gossip, but there’s this certain kind of talk—y’know, when humans make it sound like they always hated people to cover their faulty judgement? —that’s how they’re talking about the adulteress we ran into.”

Aziraphale takes note of that. There’s always a difference in judgement before the fact and judgement after the fact. There’s lies and tall tales that will ensure your reputation remains untarnished, never let them know that you sympathised with a tainted person.

“It’s different for Peter—the burglar. Suppose they like him better because he’s a man.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that, however modern their thinking is on other matters, their attitude towards women _is_ rather misogynistic,” Aziraphale says. He doesn’t like that, and he makes a mental note to bring about a change. Influence the people a little, to set a good example.

Crowley nods—of course she would have noticed. “From what I’ve gathered, there’s no reason to assume that they weren’t tempted. You think that too?”

Aziraphale agrees. In a way, it holds his idea of the village as an untainted spot together, but he also knows that it’s the truth, plain and simple. He felt the shift in the air.

All of a sudden, the light in the room changes, becomes more grey. Outside, the heavy clouds have fully consumed the sky, blocking out the sunshine. Crowley is about to say something, but that’s when the noise starts. At first, it’s subdued and small, but it quickly increases in speed and volume.

A hailstorm.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not normal,” Crowley points out. The implication is clear.

“I think that we should—”

He is interrupted now, by the appearance of Luise in the doorframe. The poor girl looks frightened, her green eyes wide with disbelief at the sudden change in weather.

She clears her throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I wanted to ask my leave for today. If you need help undressing, Madame, I would prefer to do so now.”

“Alright, yeah.” Crowley rises and gives Aziraphale a concerned look over the top of her glasses. “We can continue talking about this later.”

Aziraphale gets up from his desk and follows them out of the parlour, in the direction of the stairs. “I don’t know if we need to discuss the issue any further today. We could take an evening off?”

“Suppose it can’t do any harm.”

Aziraphale smiles at that. The past days have been spent worrying and searching for clues, walking across the countryside in search of deserted houses that might be a hiding spot for the other demon. It will do them both good to take a break, think of something else. And if that makes something warm and joyful spill through his heart, he only appreciates it as the first sign of comfort.

“Maybe we could play chess or I could read a book—there’s a passage in one that I’d like to share with you.”

The stairs creak under Luise’s shoes, in the same place where they always do. She stops for a moment and casts a questioning glance in Aziraphale’s direction. It takes him a moment to realise what she means—he was about to follow them upstairs, towards Crowley’s room. Of course, he should have considered. This isn’t at court a few decades ago, or in Rome, where the private and the public sphere were not yet sharply separated. It’s a middle-class milieu and one of them is female-presenting; this is going to strike the maid as odd, an invasion on personal space and decency.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, finally. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Meet me in the parlour when it’s suitable for you.”

Luise visibly feels more comfortable at that and gives him a slight smile.

* * *

Luise’s deft hands get to work quickly. She is swift when she removes pins or unties laces, careful when she handles the fabric.

“I think I might have to sit out the storm,” she mutters, barely audible over the sound of the hail hitting the roof.

Crowley watches as she slips the pins out of the black stomacher that keeps the dress closed at the front and tucks them into her own pinafore. A maid must hear many things, right? And she must have worked for someone else before Aziraphale took her on.

“Luise,” Crowley begins. “There must be a lot of gossip in a village like this, right?”

She looks up at her and bites her lip. There’s something in her expression that’s immediately guarded and Crowley finds it hard to read.

Luise clears her throat. “I don’t gossip. Maids shouldn’t gossip.”

Crowley considers that for a moment. She can see Luise’s point—maids often become their ladies’ trusted confidants, they pick up on more secrets than they’re supposed to. If they’re known to gossip, they are no longer trustworthy, and thereby no longer employable. Luise is clearly hoping that her stay at Fell’s House will increase her chances as a lady’s maid in the future. Crowley needs a different strategy if she wants Luise to trust her, something that resembles friendliness rather than demanding.

“Do you trade?” she asks finally.

Luise raises an eyebrow from the other side of the room, where she is carefully folding the dress. “Trade, Madame?”

“We could trade knowledge. ‘s not gossiping, then,” Crowley says. She adds a little grin to that, which she hopes comes off as friendly and trust-inviting.

Luise smiles carefully. “I suppose that trading knowledge is not off-limits. One bit of… knowledge for another?”

“Rrright. So, who around this village is _weird_?”

“Weird? There’s always Werther, of course, and Frau Weiß is a little odd, too, but I don’t suppose that this is what you mean? You mean someone who… gives you the chills?”

“Yeah, that.”

“I see. There was a strange man that I ran into a few weeks ago. He was talking to my mother, a day or two before she fell ill. I don’t know what they talked about, but she seemed very uncomfortable. Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m not even sure if it _was_ a man.”

She shudders for a moment and Crowley makes a mental note to remember the details of her statement. It’s quite possibly the most intriguing detail they have so far. She nods, in case Luise wants to add something, but the girl remains silently uncomfortable.

“I see. Your turn,” Crowley says.

A small smile passes across Luise’s face and she swiftly resumes the work on unlacing the stays to hide her expression. “Alright. How long have you known Herr Fell?”

“Since forever. I met him long before you were born.” It’s an easy answer. Nothing will ever encapsulate over five-thousand years of friendship in human terms, but _since forever_ , Crowley has found, gives them a certain impression.

“That _is_ a long time. So you knew him before you were widowed, right?”

“I believe it’s my turn now. Has your mother ever shown signs of this illness before?”

“She hasn’t. She was always in good health. She _is_ better now, after Herr Fell spoke to her, he really is a marvellous man. I don’t know what he said to her, but it gave her new strength.”

_So much for being subtle, eh?_ “Has she recovered fully?”

“Not yet, Madame. She is still plagued with coughs and weakness, but her fevers have disappeared, quite miraculously.”

That sounds like a reasonably small miracle. Aziraphale knows his limitations, and if those frivolous miracles are spread thin enough, it’s unlikely that Heaven will reprimand him.

“If that’s enough of an answer for you, I believe it’s my turn: If I remember correctly, he was married to your sister. Did you know him first, or did you only meet him after your sister’s marriage?”

“I told you I’ve known him forever.” Crowley knows that she won’t be happy with that answer, and she also knows that she has a final question that she needs to direct at Luise, one that requires trust. She decides to lay it on a little thick. “We’ve… gone through a lot together, but his family—they don’t like me, let’s put it like that. A religious thing.”

Luise gasps a little at that and lowers her voice in mock shock. “Are you a _catholic_?”

“Yup, that. Big catholic, me.”

“I suppose that explains why I never see you in church,” Luise concludes and Crowley grins at that. “Your turn.”

Crowley pretends to think about it for a moment, even though she already knows what she’ll ask, how to make it sound just suggestive enough. “You know anybody who has also met that stranger? The one who talked to your mother?” 

Luise shifts from one foot to the other, so Crowley tries to give her an encouraging impression. It seems to work, judging by the conflicting emotions that pass across her face, finally settling on a torn and slightly guilty look that reminds her a little of Aziraphale.

“I don’t know why that’s of interest to you but… I suppose I can tell you. Fräulein Lotte has told me of a similar run-in with a rider that made her terribly uncomfortable. She might know more than I do, because she has spoken to him.”

Crowley nods. “Awful thing, yeah. That’s all I needed to know.”

She walks over to the commode and picks up her jacket for additional warmth and decency, while Luise keeps a keen eye on her. “You’ll better be off—seems the storm is over for now.”

“Ah, but Madame, I believe I still have a question to ask.” There’s a slight twinkle in Luise’s eyes. “It wouldn’t do to keep this unsettled, now would it?”

Crowley rolls her eyes behind the sunglasses. “Yes, good, a final question, then.”

Luise takes a deep breath—she knows full well that the next question might cross a line and tries not to do so. “Why don’t you tell him that: _Du taugst mir_?”

Crowley very nearly blinks in confusion. “You… suffice? To me?[20]”

“What? No! That’s not what I meant!” Luise shakes her head vehemently. “Oh, that doesn’t sound good at all. _Taugen_ , _taugen_ —there has to be a synonym.” She rubs her forehead in frustration. “Try… try… not _like_ … I know you can't marry him because he was your sister's husband, but that doesn't have to stop you from being in love with him. Tell him that you fancy him.”

“But I don’t,” Crowley says, careful and measured.

She knows, of course, that that’s not true, but Luise doesn’t. The girl swallows hard, nods and straightens her pinafore, all at once. She mutters a quick apology, and the next moment she’s gone, which leaves Crowley with the unfortunate opportunity to think about the feelings that reside in her chest, have done for far too long. She knows that there’s no place for them in the world, no hope and no reward.

Another thing that’s not quite true. The reward can be to simply exist next to each other. So they spend the night downstairs together, wrapped up in their comfortable banyan and jacket, and while Crowley swirls the dregs at the bottom of her wine glass, lulled in by Aziraphale’s reading voice, she catches herself thinking that she would like all of her days to end like this.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

[19] Despite her apparent conviction, this is a blatant lie. The _adultress_ was exceptionally well-liked upon her arrival at the village and people swarmed her to soak up some of her charms as a certified woman-of-the-world. As usual, the truth got twisted a little with time, to antagonise the sinner and make the guiltless citizens seem more immaculate than they were.

[20] While the translation Crowley thinks of is not incorrect, what Luise means is more along the lines of _You appeal to me._


	6. A Gathering Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an argument and an unexpected reconciliation happen.

_And in your arms, an angel’s arms, I could/  
Rest as my ravaged heart was restored.  
(J. W. Goethe, To Charlotte von Stein)_

_September 25, 1771._

It is midday on a Tuesday and Crowley is bored. She didn’t expect to be bored while possibly also being in mortal peril, but the past few days have been far too quiet. The hailstorm was the last sign of the other demon’s intervention, although Crowley must admit that she isn’t _quite_ sure about that anymore. It’s an odd coincidence that the incidents stopped when they took note of them. Now it feels like they’re doing nothing but waiting for them to continue.

Aziraphale breezes into the library, where Crowley is currently studying a paper on chess techniques[21]. His arms are filled with fruits and baked goods, the rewards of a morning spent at the market. Crowley has never understood why it makes Aziraphale so happy to stress himself over pears and grapes and whatnot, but it’s become a part of what he is centuries ago.

He sets down the fruits on his desk and busies himself with the papers that have accumulated there. A slight frown is stuck to his face and whatever correspondence he is reading over doesn’t have a bettering effect on his mood.

“I passed a sickly child at the market today,” Aziraphale says, when he notices Crowley’s questioning gaze on him. He rubs a hand across his eyes. “I wish I could have spared a miracle. It felt wrong to… just walk past. Is that what humans feel like at all times?” 

“You could have used a miracle, though.” Aziraphale opens his mouth and he seems like he’s about to argue, so Crowley quickly continues. “Look, it’s been a week now, and ever since we stopped using our powers, there’s been little to no sign of them, whoever they are. In fact, it might even _help_ us to use a miracle here and there.”

“I’m not saying that it wouldn’t be helpful, but we still need to take care. We cannot stumble ahead unprepared.” Aziraphale casts a careful look over his shoulder, checks if the girl can hear them. He clears his throat and slips into another language, one that’s been dead long since. Ancient Greek has always sounded so melodic in his rich voice, but Crowley won’t let herself be deterred by the pleasing flow of vowels and consonants. “As long as we can still _ask_ the other villagers, there’s no need to influence them – I know that’s what you would suggest.”

“I would, because they don’t trust me. I’m not getting anything out of them.” The thing is, Crowley wants to be useful. She doesn’t want to be bored anymore, sitting around and thinking thoughts through for the hundredth time, hoping that she will get useable information out of Aziraphale, who can smile and bow and get an answer to every question he might have. It’s getting on her nerves, and they are spread thin enough as is already. It makes her itch, not being an active part of this.

“Still – we can’t risk endangering ourselves. Perhaps we should give it another day – maybe we can get the humans to do the actual work for us? That has worked perfectly well so far. It’s always been a part of the Arrangement, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale does that thing, where he laughs in order to hide how fraught his nerves are, but Crowley doesn’t buy it, not for one second. She knows him too well. “Avoiding trouble.”

“Avoiding trouble? ‘s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”

“Crowley, you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

Aziraphale licks his lip nervously. “I don’t want to play with fire. Not this time around. You know the risk.”

“And you think that risk can be avoided by avoiding the one thing that makes us more efficient than humans? Why, because miracles got us in trouble in the first place? Yes, makes sense to me.” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm and Aziraphale is giving her a look that walks a thin line between the desperate wish to make her understand and exasperation that can soon shift to anger.

“Stop acting childish, Crowley.”

“Childish, am I now?”

“Yes! We should just ask the parson for help. I believe that he can find the demon if we nudge him in the right direction. Mind you – he must not find out about you, of course – but he could – exorcise the other one!”

“I don’t like that idea.”

“Why?”

“Do you want a numbered list?” Aziraphale doesn’t respond to that, so she continues. “First of all, if he finds _me_ and exorcises me, that will make everything a lot more complicated. I’d have to explain that down there and write up a report, apart from the fact that it _hurts like anything_. And if any of that happens at the church, I can’t be a part of it either. I’d never enter a church, not for anything in the world.”

“But it doesn’t _have_ to be that way. You can stay as far away from it as possible, to keep you safe and –”

“I don’t want to be away. I want to be a part of this – it’s both of us who are in trouble – you don’t understand.” Crowley snorts, but the amusement behind it is dry at best. “Suggesting an exorcism to a demon and wondering why I’m not keen on it.”

“That’s just unfair–”

“You can’t just send them down to Hell, either. Chances are, they _know_ about the Arrangement and there’s nothing that could stop them from telling anyone downstairs about it when they don’t have the chance to get proof anymore. Suspicion can be enough to do us in.”

Crowley can see that Aziraphale is getting worked up too. His brows are tightly drawn together and his hands have temporarily stopped moving. “How can you be sure they haven’t told anyone?”

“We’d know. If anybody down there suspected that we’re working together, they’d come for me sooner than you could imagine. No, either we have to sway them – and sway them properly, yeah? – or destroy them. And I’d feel _much_ safer if they’re destroyed.”

“You’re saying we should kill them? Crowley, that’s not fair, just because they _know_ something. We can try to change their mind first – perhaps I could smite them. That should do nicely.”

“So what? They’ll cower and say that they don’t mean us any harm, they just wanted to know, and the next thing we know, we’ve got Heaven and Hell both breathing down our necks. Mercy will get us destroyed, we can’t get out of the situation like that.”

“We ought to talk to the demon first,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley hates the decisiveness in his words, as though it doesn’t matter what she thinks about this.

“You don’t know other demons like I do. They’re not like me, you can’t _talk_ to them. There’s no reasoning downstairs, not when serious matters are on hand. It’d be _really_ stupid to give them a chance when we can destroy them and be _safe_.”

“I’m not as naive as you think, Crowley. I know how dangerous this situation is, but I’m an angel, I’m not _supposed_ to murder anyone – especially not when we don’t give them a chance! If there is any other way that allows us to get away with… this thing, then I’ll gladly take the opportunity.”

“This _thing_?”

“Yes, the _Arrangement_. Perhaps it would have been better if we had never– if we had – it would have been safer if we weren’t quite so obviously connected. If they could see that, then someone else might have seen it, too. Perhaps they’re just waiting for us to slip up and –”

“So you’re saying that you regret it? That we should never have worked together?”

“The only thing I want is for us to get away with –”

“Get away with it? What, like it’s some kind of children’s game and you’re afraid that you’ll get punished?”

“No!” Aziraphale exclaims, the garish red of anger flashing bright across his cheeks.

“There’s no _getting away with it_ ,” Crowley hisses in response. “Either we make it out alive and they’re destroyed, or they make it out and _we’re_ destroyed. We’ll be fucking destroyed, Aziraphale, you understand that, right?”

“I’m not stupid, Crowley.”

“You are! You are if you don’t understand this.”

Aziraphale remains silent, although Crowley can see that he is itching to say something, to throw back another insult. It makes her seethe with rage – why can’t the daft angel see things for what they are? If that’s how their Arrangement is going to end, there must be a better way to go about this, a better way to handle the argument, a way _not to be destroyed_. If there’s another way to go about it, apart from destroying the other demon – no. There simply is none.

“I’m done with this conversation.”

“Well, quite frankly, so am I. You’re free to leave, you know, and solve the problem on your own, if you know so much better than me.”

“I think I will,” she snaps.

Aziraphale looks at her in wide-eyed disbelief for a moment, bites his lip. He hesitates for a moment, then he throws his hands up in exasperation and calls, “Fine! I don’t _need_ you anyway.”

Crowley jumps out of her chair and rushes past Aziraphale’s desk, not caring about the stack of letters that gets caught on the wide edge of her skirts and tumbles to the floor. She grabs her jacket off the side table in the corridor (She hasn’t put it there, why has it ended up here? Things just keep getting scattered in this house) and lets the door fall shut behind her with a resounding crash.

It’s a little easier to let go of the anger boiling in her stomach now that she’s outside, away from the source of her frustration. Perhaps it would do her good to take a long walk, stay away for a while. Aziraphale should be more reasonable on her return. He has to be.

There’s a place where she’ll meet no-one, she’s sure. The local humans avoid the ravine, the place where the post rider died. She likes places like that, with their rough edges and quiet seclusion, nothing to hear but the water, rushing and rushing without end. It’s not that far away, not considering the pace she’s walking at.

Nature passes her by without her noticing much, not with how lost in thoughts she is. He simply doesn’t understand her, or rather, he doesn’t _want_ to see her point of view. It’s easier that way, to ignore her part in this and pretend they can handle the problem with a quick smiting.

Is that what humans feel like, when they’re not being listened to?

She’s reached the ravine by now, a tear that spreads through the landscape, and in the midst of which a stream claws its way through rocky ground. There’s a path that winds down towards the riverbed, where imprints of boots are still visible in the place the accident happened. Otherwise, it’s completely deserted.

Right. That’s a good place to wind down.

She passes a hand over her face, shoving her sunglasses out of the way. They must find a solution together. It’s stupid, a stupid argument, it shouldn’t be a thing that breaks them apart. There must be an agreement they can settle on, they always do, but Crowley can’t constantly give in to Aziraphale’s whims, even if it’s hard for her not to. She’s always indulged him, always given him space, waited for him to change his mind. Damn it, Crowley waited for almost three hundred years until he agreed to the Arrangement, she could wait bloody well, but not _now_. She has to make him see.

Crowley sighs and takes a look around the landscape. The wind is stronger here at the edge of the ravine, and wet, probably with the water it picks up from the river. It tears at the edges of her sheer fichu, trying to untuck it from the heavy fabric of her dress. Clouds are gathering on the grey sky, as much in turmoil as Crowley herself. She decides to go ahead and start the steep climb down.

Perhaps she was too harsh with him, she thinks as she carefully tests the stone beneath her boot. It’s not his fault that she feels useless, that the people don’t trust her yet – it’s the way humans work. And maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to consult the priest after all – even if the thought of an exorcism happening within the bounds of the village makes her insides boil with discomfort.

Meeting each other halfway, that’s how it’s supposed to work, right? And yet, it takes effort to think about _forgiveness_ , call it her demonic nature or simple, ordinary rage.

Crowley has nearly reached the bottom of the valley when the first roll of thunder resounds through the ravine. She flinches at the sound of it. It’s not that thunder is uncommon, or that it makes her uncomfortable, but she hasn’t expected it to happen here. The hail a few days ago was a short interlude, infused with demonic magic, but this is – natural. A raindrop hits the back of her nose, another her collarbone.

A storm is brewing. She knows that she should climb back up, try to find her way back to the house before it gets worse, but the rain hits with full force just a moment later, turning the slope slippery far too quickly. That’s the moment when she picks up on it – just a trace of _something_ evil, something that calls to the demonic core of her. It’s an odd feeling of kinship that passes over her and almost makes her want to shiver.

The other demon must have stayed here for a while. Even if the impression is faint by now, she can still place it well enough. It must have been a week ago, maybe two, before they left this spot behind. If she can find the exact place – maybe there’s something left there, something that will give her a decisive clue.

The rain is cold and unforgiving, hitting so strongly it hurts her skin. It turns the ground to mud within minutes, holding on to the heels of her boots. The wind picks up again, roaming through the valley between the rocks. It tosses her skirt around, tangling it with her legs, until even the petticoat beneath it is starting to soak through. She tries to make a stand against it, tries to follow the demon’s tracks.

Suddenly, there’s another gush of wet wind slapping across her face and the traces are gone. Crowley can’t pick up on them anymore, no matter how hard she tries. Instead, she finds herself lost in the quickly darkening night, in the centre of a thunderstorm. For a moment, she considers using a miracle, but that would ruin any remaining chance at finding the other demon’s tracks again, interlacing them with her own magic.

She’s _fucked._

* * *

Meanwhile, Aziraphale is sitting in the wing-back chair in their parlour, holding on to a book in his lap. A neglected cup of tea is at his side, the comfort it could offer quickly forgotten about. The paper is starting to feel sweaty and crinkled underneath his palm, but he barely notices, fixed as his attention is on the view outside the small window. He couldn’t read, not now. The panes rattle in the wind, smudged with thick raindrops, but Aziraphale is staring past them at the trees, whose branches are thrown around by the storm.

He doesn’t like the thought of Crowley being out there in this weather, especially if it’s his fault that she is caught up in the storm. He hopes that she comes back. Historically speaking, Crowley has tended to avoid him after their arguments, but he would beg her not to do so this time. Not just because he would feel lonely, but because he _wants_ her to be there, he _wants_ her to be a part of solving this problem, if only they could agree on a way to proceed.

Aziraphale comes to the sudden and very abrupt conclusion that he feels _guilty_. Angels shouldn’t ever feel guilty nor should they regret but Aziraphale is positively hit with a wave of both emotions, threaded tightly together into a rope that wraps around him and makes his breath come short.

He jumps to his feet, tries to shake off the coil of fear that clings to him at the thought of Crowley being out there, unable to make use of her powers, and it is all Aziraphale’s fault. If only he hadn’t started the argument – but he wasn’t wrong, how should he have known it would lead to _this_? If only it hadn’t happened, Crowley would be here with him, sitting on the divan and adding snarky bits of commentary to the story Aziraphale was reading out loud to her, like he had done a few nights before when he had found a particularly amusing scene in Wieland’s _Story of Agathon_[22].

Aziraphale only notices that he has started to pace when he hits his elbow on the low commode. Of course, there’s something of Crowley’s lying there, a hat with a torn band that Luise should have fixed by now.

“Sir,” Luise’s voice suddenly rings behind him, feeble and careful. “Is Madame Crowley all right? I haven’t seen her since your falling out.”

“You heard that?” Aziraphale asks and he wills his voice to be calm. “I am very sorry, Luise. It was a misunderstanding, that is all, nothing to worry about. Everything is fine.”

Luise takes a long look at him, her eyebrows tightly drawn together. Despite the sternness of her eyes, her mouth is turned into a soft smile, and Aziraphale realises that the emotion radiating from her is comfort. She is very good at that. If Aziraphale were a human, he would be able to appreciate her effort better, but he still values her for it.

“If… if it’s alright by you, sir, I will go home to my mother now. She gets very antsy over weather like this. Especially when I’m not there.”

“I understand that, of course I do. Please, give her my best wishes.”

Her eyes are still fixed on him and Aziraphale realises that she meant more by that. He is touched by her dedication to calm him, so he quickly performs a small blessing on Luise, ensuring that she will pass through the storm unharmed, even if she only needs to make it down the street. He wishes that he could extend that favour to his – to Crowley. But no – he shouldn’t. They agreed to refrain from using their powers – and of course he screwed that up now, he’s not thinking straight.

“If you need me to stay…” Luise offers a final time.

She seems just as anxious about Crowley as Aziraphale is and he understands that her worries are not unreasonable by human standards, considering that she is currently a woman-shaped being finding her way through a dark and stormy night.

He tries his best to calm her down. “Thank you, dear, but that won’t be necessary. I am certain your mother needs your care more than I do.”

Luise nods, but the worry still remains in her serious gaze. She reaches for her jacket, but then she stops in her tracks and reaches for Aziraphale’s hands instead, taking them gently between her own.

“Please don’t get yourself into danger because of Madame. It would not do either of you any good. Wait for her here, and if she has not returned by the morning, we will search for her.”

Aziraphale carefully winds his hands out of her grip and gives her a reassuring smile. “I trust in Madame Crowley. She knows how to keep herself safe. She’s always done so.”

“I hope she does. I will pray for both of you,” Luise says and finally takes her jacket to brace her against the storm.

Aziraphale almost smiles at the irony of that, to pray for a demon’s safe return to an angel’s home. And yet, he hopes, irrationally. It almost calms him down, makes him return to the parlour and pick up his book, even if he can’t find the nerve to sit down yet. It wouldn’t do them any good if both of them got lost in the storm outside. Crowley can fend for herself and hopefully come back to him, given some time. Luise is right, he will stay here and wait even if the words still blur in front of his eyes.

He waits and waits, watches the clock hands pass from eight to nine to ten. He hears the thunder rolling above his head, sees the flashes of lightning out of the corner of his eye. Storms have never bothered him before, never except once, when rain fell for forty days and it felt like the world would end. It had been the whole world then, but now it feels like his own world stands a chance of falling apart.

Aziraphale’s fears are growing stronger again, they build and build as he sits there, powerlessly waiting. What _if_ something happened to Crowley and she got discorporated? The consequences of getting sent back to Hell at this time could be more terrifying than anything else Aziraphale has ever imagined. If this _other demon_ were to run across Crowley now and discorporate her, they might be able to sense a trace of Goodness on her down there, after spending so much time with an angel. Damn it, it wouldn’t even require malevolent influence, if she has gone to the nearby ravine as little as a wrong step could send her back. Aziraphale realises that those worries are perhaps taking it a bit too far, but he assumes this is to do with the feeling of guilt that just won’t allow itself to be shaken off. He is not usually prone to pacing, either, unless he is mentally preparing himself for a particularly uncomfortable meeting with Heaven, but he suddenly has this strong, overwhelming desire to run.

Almost half an hour passes before he has the ability to remain still again and Aziraphale finally falls back into his armchair with a sigh and runs a hand across his face. He should be calmer, he knows he should, but the sky has turned pitch black with not a single star in sight. It is barely illuminated by flashes of lightning every other moment, followed by deep rolls of thunder that now make him wince in discomfort.

His tea has grown cold but Aziraphale doesn’t notice that when he takes a sip and tries to steer his thoughts into a different direction. He thinks of books he’d like to read, pictures a cosy bookshop where he can browse heavy tomes for ages, long enough to pass the storm. He conjures an image in his mind’s eye, of leatherbound spines and plush armchairs, tables bowing under the weight of pages stacked upon pages. Walls painted in a variety of gorgeous colours that bring life to the place. Customers bustling through the aisles of shelving, inspecting the latest volume of Tristram Shandy or a collection of plays by Diderot or the writings of Lavater. It calms him, picturing the shop, imagining the smell of paper and ink, leather and glue. Perhaps, one day –

A sharp rap sounds against the door, heavy like the weight of a full body falling against the wood. Aziraphale drops his tea cup as he shoots to his feet, and he does not notice the porcelain cracking and breaking at his feet. He feels like something hooked him with full force, pulling him up and sending him rushing towards the door.

Crowley is standing before him, drenched to the bone, pale and shivering. Her skirt is coated in heavy mud, dragging the fabric down. She is breathing visibly, trying to wind down the energy their corporations are so prone to produce in stressful situations. Wet hair is sticking to her face in several places, falling onto her chest in others, so drenched that every single streak seems black instead of red. Her complexion has turned into a sickly chalk white that makes Aziraphale want to shiver in sympathy.

“Are you done staring?” Crowley snaps and she storms into the entryway of their house, followed by a wet gust of wind that splatters raindrops across Aziraphale’s face.

Within a moment, he can feel the heavy weight of his worry being lifted from his shoulders and this sudden relief makes him lightheaded. It leaves him feeling dizzy and grateful and overwhelmed.

“Crowley! I’m so – you’re back, thank Heavens!”

“Better leave them out of it,” she growls and silence falls between them, before she clears her throat. “That storm took me completely by surprise. It’s so fucking dark out there, I lost my way twice. Could’ve sworn I nearly fell down a crevice near the river.”

Aziraphale is wringing his hands again, damn those nerves – even if they’re of a more happy nature this time. “But you are here now. Are – are you all right?”

“As alright as I can be,” Crowley says and Aziraphale knows that it’s a silly question.

She’s dripping water all over the floor and her posture’s tight with cold shivers. In the silence between them, the sounds of droplets on wood are louder than they ever should be. They’re looking at each other, waiting for _something_ to relieve the tension.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale blurts out, and then, because it feels wrong to just… admit it like that, “You’re drenched, I shouldn’t be keeping you.”

Crowley nods and begins to wriggle out of her jacket. Aziraphale notices that half of it is caked in sandy mud, where she must have slipped in the dirt, and it turns the fabric stiff and hard to get out of. She struggles to slip it off but Aziraphale isn’t sure whether he should reach out and help her. He probably wouldn’t be welcome, not after everything that happened today.

When she has finally managed to take off the jacket, Aziraphale takes it from her and hangs it on a rack, where Luise will find it in the morning and scrub the dirt out of it, return it to a state in which they can pretend the storm and the falling out never happened.

Crowley’s still shivering with the cold water clinging to her clothes and her corporation when she begins to fidget with the pins that keep the outermost layer of her dress in place. They are small and easily hidden from view and she doesn’t catch them, not with the fumbling of her fingers. After a couple of moments, she drops her shaking hands in frustration. Even as they rest uselessly on her skirts, they still tremble.

“I can’t undo those blasted pins,” she mutters, her voice dripping with bitterness.

“Let me help you,” Aziraphale says. It’s an offer but they both know it comes out of necessity.

Crowley gives him a long look, then she swallows so hard he can see the line of her throat bobbing. “Yeah, alright.”

It’s like the last remainder of the morning’s rage fades away between them when she takes off her smudged sunglasses and sighs. Aziraphale gives her a faint smile, as if that could alleviate the situation once and for all, even though he knows it cannot.

“Are you certain?” he asks, for good measure.

Crowley’s expression turns a little softer. “Yes. As I said, I can’t undo them, so, er, if you could – yeah.”

Aziraphale tries to smile gently and he thinks that it works, for Crowley returns a half-smirk that’s meant to mirror the same tone. It looks a bit odd on her chalky, rain-streaked face, but it’s so perfectly her that it warms Aziraphale’s heart nonetheless. He can feel how its beat turns steady and slow again.

“You don’t have to ask, you know,” he says. He doesn’t want Crowley to be uncomfortable. He wants them to be alright.

“But I just did, didn’t I?” Crowley replies with a tired smirk.

With those words, they make their way up to the private rooms, and Aziraphale stops to retrieve a towel. He hesitates for a moment, but then he remembers that Crowley’s jacket is ruined and she has no other, so he quickly ducks into his own, spare room. He heads for the bed, where his cosy blue banyan lies. It is warm and soft between his hands; perhaps Crowley would appreciate it. It’s not her style, of course not, but… Aziraphale just wants her to be warm. He doesn’t get the chance to show her some care very often, and now she has given him permission to do so.

By the time Aziraphale has reached her chamber, Crowley has pulled the ruined fichu out from under her dress, and she haphazardly throws it onto the bed.

“Get on with it,” Crowley says, pushing the wet strands of hair out of her face. A bit of her usual armour seems to be back in place. “You can put the pins in that cushion on the commode, next to that pathetic excuse for a plant.”

“All right.”

Aziraphale doesn’t quite understand why he suddenly feels nervous – no, not nervous, it’s a slightly calmer sort of excitement. It has nothing to do with the kind of nervosity he feels when he prepares for a meeting in Heaven or when he has to take care of a problem he’s mucked up before.

This is such an intimate thing. Something humans do, not their kind.

He gently reaches for the place where the seam of her dress meets the dark stomacher that holds the two parts together in the front. The pins are cool against the skin of his fingertips. Crowley stiffens for a moment and Aziraphale withdraws his hand. Even after thousands of years it’s still odd to be in such close proximity. He imagines that Crowley feels the same way.

“I suppose I could spare a miracle–” he starts, but he is immediately interrupted.

“No, it’s alright – ‘s a little weird. Since, you know, we don’t usually touch.” She bites her lip in frustration and turns her head. “Just go on.”

It’s easier, with her facing the other way, when Aziraphale doesn’t have to look her in the eyes and see the conflicting emotions in them. He knows that they’re there, knows that she must feel this odd mixture of warmth and discomfort too. He can still see it in the lines of her shoulders, in the tenseness of her jaw. Mortal enemies aren’t supposed to be close like this, to touch with gentleness and to be kind. What they are feels like a barrier between them, a physical reality.

Aziraphale draws a breath. He reaches out again, settling his palm on top of the wet, stark fabric. The embroidered decorations are rough against his skin, the slope between dress and stomacher is still dripping with water, and this is the strangest act of bravery he’s ever committed to, because he knows already that once he does, he won’t want to stop touching Crowley. He wants to keep feeling the motion of her chest rising and falling and this doesn’t bear thinking about, because if he would, it might push him over the edge of the cliff he has steered clear of for so long.

He picks at a cold pin, hoping that it can be of some use grounding him. It has slipped from Crowley’s fingers so easily before, but Aziraphale holds it with precision, even though it has been a long time since he last worked the closing mechanism of a dress. Hooks, pins, bands; it’s been a century at least.

When he has detached the first couple of pins, he walks over to the commode and looks for the pincushion. Of course, it’s black and red, he should have known. He takes it with him and tries to affix it to Crowley’s dress, but she jerks her arm back when he touches the thin fabric of her shift’s ruffles, peeking out under the dress sleeve.

“You’re going to prick me,” she hisses, and while she looks at him for a short moment, Aziraphale notices the faint blush that rises into her cheeks.

He puts on a reassuring smile, even though he can’t help the bit of amusement that slips into it. “I can assure you, I know my way around clothing and pins. Mind, I get my clothes tailored instead of miracling them.”

“Just ‘cause you get them tailored doesn’t mean you know how to handle them,” she mumbles, but there’s no edge to it.

Aziraphale might not agree with her but he sees her point, so he sets the pincushion down on the floor next to the bed. He notices how the tension starts to leave her corporation a little.

“Hold still for me please,” he says with a small sigh as he busies himself with the rest of the pins.

Crowley obliges, so he makes his way through the left side of the dress until the black filling fabric of the stomacher is half detached, holding the pins between his teeth when they become too copious for his hands. It becomes less awkward with time, when he has settled into the rhythm of finding and drawing out the pins and smoothing the fabric beneath it. It’s almost like he is becoming accustomed to the proximity of Crowley’s body.

When he deposits the pins and returns to the right side, he notices a strange look on Crowley’s face, something almost like a fond smile. It feels nice to see it directed towards him, even though there’s something restless behind it. By the time Aziraphale has finished the other side, his hands feel damp with how wet Crowley’s clothes are.

He catches the stomacher as it falls down from the two sides of the red dress it usually holds together, almost black with the rainwater they’ve absorbed. With care, he places the piece of fabric on the chair in the corner and sets the pincushion back onto the commode to ensure neither of them could accidentally step onto it.

As soon as Aziraphale returns, Crowley lifts her arms just enough so he can slip a hand between the heavy fabric of the dress and the stays to help her pull it off. The sleeve slips off easily enough, but the fabric around her waist sits tightly under the golden, snake-shaped belt. Carefully, he slides a hand down between the textiles, avoiding a touch that’s too close, and disentangles the skirt and the belt. He walks around her to help her slip out of the dress, an odd mirror of their usual patterns, where Crowley is the one to circle him.

Aziraphale folds the fabric and drapes it over the backrest, while Crowley busies herself with the small bow that holds the front of her skirt in place. It comes undone after a few moments of fidgeting and the fabric half-slides down the length of the petticoat.

“Can you undo the bow in the back?” Crowley asks, her voice just the slightest bit unsteady.

Aziraphale feels the seeds of a realisation start to grow within him. They’re on the same page here – there’s discomfort in a situation that should, under different circumstances, evoke comfort, a feeling of being warmed and being safe. It’s not the thing itself, it’s the impossibility of reacting to it. It’s only too palpable, the possibility spread out before them. Aziraphale could reach out so easily, take her into his arms and apologise. Or, if that was too much for Crowley, he could touch her shoulder gently, rub some comfort into her skin. He wants to touch her, but he cannot. He hopes that Crowley won’t let him – otherwise, he might not hold back.

Aziraphale can’t even think about it, this want of his. What he might find is too dangerous, below that roughened surface of one-minded hope.

He undoes the bow swiftly, notices how damp the fabric is even here. The rain is still merciless, thrumming against the tiles of the roof and resounding through the room. Crowley’s busy with the next layer’s bow on the front, and the skirt soon gives way enough for her to slip it down and step out of it. Next come the embroidered pockets that she’s got tied around her waist. Aziraphale has always been a bit envious of the space that women’s pockets offer, as opposed to how little fits into the pockets attached to his own tail coat. They fall onto the bed with a clutter. Who knows what Crowley stores in there.

“Got to clear them out someday,” Crowley says as she reaches up to disentangle the flattened cap from her curls, tearing at it when it gets stuck. It’s ruined anyway. “Think my comb’s in there.”

She lets it fall onto the floorboards, among the drenched fabric of her skirt, and searches the back of her head for the pins and bands that kept her updo in place, disrupted by the storm. The tresses come undone one by one as she tugs at the pins and hands them to Aziraphale. He watches, enticed, as her hair comes undone fully, clinging to the linen straps of her stays, to the slope of her neck. He shouldn’t be transfixed by this, he knows he shouldn’t, but he cannot help it. A few small leaves have entangled themselves with Crowley’s curls and his hands move to pick at them of their own volition, gently pulling them from the dripping strands.

“Is this all right?” he asks, when he notices the muscles in Crowley’s neck tightening.

Crowley shudders, a sharp and quick motion, so Aziraphale immediately withdraws his hands and wipes them on his breeches, breaking the spell. His traitorous, yearning palms cry out for more. He draws a deep breath to steady himself before returning his hands to Crowley’s garments, returning to undress her. No, better put it another way: to help her, lest his ever-shouting brain gets _ideas_.

“Yes,” Crowley finally says. “It’s alright.”

It has always been there, this hunger to touch her, in the gentlest ways. At first, he was mesmerised with the darkness of Crowley’s demon wings, how shiny and well-groomed the feathers seemed. _Touch_ , it had whispered, _feel_. Then, for a long time, his hunger had faded into near nothingness, before he plunged headfirst into it, one late night in Rome, sitting at different ends of the same _schola_ , yearning for the memory of a human friend they’d shared. He had wanted to put an arm around Crowley. Now, he cannot help feeling it grow inside him, demanding to be fed. It has long since stopped whispering. _Touch_ , it shouts, a cacophony of voices blending into one, _hold_ , a cacophony getting louder and louder.

So he gives in. Gently, as though he could break her, Aziraphale runs a finger across the exposed tip of Crowley’s shoulder blade, feeling the sharpness of its lines beneath her skin, softened with the wetness of wearing rain-stained clothes. He feels it when the muscles of her back tighten only for a moment, relaxing again swiftly, as if they were welcoming his touch after an initial surprise.

Crowley draws a sharp breath when Aziraphale’s hands slide down the fabric of her shift until they fit against the upper edge of her stays. The linen is coarse and the metal eyelets are chillingly cold to the touch.

He must find something to break this spell – _pull yourself together, Aziraphale!_ – to shift the mood back to more common, comforting terrain. Right, there’s something that should be hanging between them – would be hanging between them if it weren’t for the circumstances of Crowley’s return – the remainder of a charged argument. That should do nicely to distract him – and they should talk about it, too.

“About – about earlier today,” he starts and he can feel Crowley tense beneath his hands. “It’s not forgotten, of course, but it’s forgiven.”

“How very decent of you,” she snarls and Aziraphale _knows_ that it’s not the right way to go about this, to tell a demon they’re forgiven. Best not to dwell on that.

“Amusing thing to say while I’m divesting you of your garments, don’t you think?” he says instead, letting a bit of sarcastic delight shine through.

Crowley chuckles at that. “Suppose so, yeah.”

There’s a moment during which they both smile – he can’t see it, but he knows it, knows it all too well – and it feels so easy. This moment between them, it’s not like anything else they share. It seems freer, for some reason, and Aziraphale thinks that Crowley must feel it too, for she relaxes under his touch when he picks up the end of the lace holding the stays together.

Aziraphale presses the fabric down against the lines of Crowley’s body, feels the strong boning of the stays against his palm. The linen lacing comes undone rather easily, and with every bit of space the stays give, he can feel more of Crowley’s angles. For a moment, he wonders if it would be like that the other way around, if it were morning and he would pull the linen strap through the eyelets, up and up, with a bodkin. Domestic – that’s what it would be. This is just lending a hand when it’s needed. In the morning, she could just pick a longer strap to pull the stays closed and reach it herself, issue resolved.

Now, however, Aziraphale shouldn’t feel so _soft_ looking at the angles and lines of Crowley’s shoulders, almost exposed by the movement of fabric. The voice inside him whispers again – _reach out_ – but he cannot listen to it – _touch_. He hasn’t seen Crowley like this in centuries, unprotected by layers upon layers of fashionable clothing. Her corporation is so much paler here where it’s never exposed to the sun. He could trace the line between covered and uncovered skin.

It suddenly occurs to him that he wants to press a kiss against Crowley’s shoulder, that small stretch of skin where her shift has slipped. Aziraphale might very well be in trouble.

* * *

The carefully-wrought net of self-control that Crowley has been spinning around herself for centuries is slowly starting to slip away. It’s all starting to get too much.

At first, it was just close proximity – she should really have expected that. It would have been easy to avoid that, but no matter how often her corporation did the thing for her – the shying back, the startling at touch – she found herself wanting more of it, of closeness, of touch, of warmth. She’s still drenched to the bone, hair sticking disgustingly to her neck, her cheek, her temples, but there’s also another body behind her, warm and comforting, despite the strange unsettlement that had fallen between them before. It has faded far too quickly.

Now, this stupid heart of hers has taken over, picked up the reins of her brain and redirected it from its defensive tracks out into the open. She _knows_ that it’s dangerous to give in, but she also knows that this might be the only chance she will get at being this close to Aziraphale, something she has wanted for centuries, but never as desperately as when she feels the warmth of his palms against her back. Crowley can feel the angel’s breath against her neck, tickling over the small hairs there, as he studiously works the final inch of lacing. It feels almost like a gentle kiss, strangely like the lips on her skin that haunt her dreams and won’t disappear. She hardly even notices the subtle pressure of the stays give way to her usual slumped posture.

Instead, a sickeningly sweet thought crosses Crowley’s mind – she wants to be held like that, with Aziraphale’s hands on her waist and his chin in the crook of her neck. Fuck, she shouldn’t want things like that, domestic things, things that are rooted in… in _love_. It would probably hurt less if she weren’t so aware of it, this cruel, useless feeling that keeps coming back to haunt her – has done so for more than a millennium. Won’t it ever abate?

Aziraphale clears his throat.

“That’s – that’s the stays all done. Or, undone rather.” Aziraphale laughs in a way that sounds more like a spoken _ha_ than like a genuine laugh. “Let me just – stow them away.”

So he does, and Crowley watches him flit about the room, setting clothes aside and straightening them out. Of course he does that. He likes fixing things, as long as they aren’t his own messes.

“I brought over the banyan earlier, in case you’re cold. You don’t have to wear it, of course, but I thought it might be nice to...”

He shrugs, and before either of them can reconsider, Crowley reaches for the bright blue fabric draped neatly over the end of the bed. She wraps herself up in it, ties the fabric close around her waist. It’s not just the additional warmth that makes it so comfortable. Even now, when Crowley’s head is filled with everything else happening, she notices Aziraphale’s cologne, the smell of him, inseparably intertwined with the garment he has taken to wearing almost everyday. Always the blue one, never the white banyan that hangs in the corridor. Crowley wants to bury her face in the fabric, never let go of it again. Is this what bottled comfort would be like?

“Should I help you with the boots, too?” Aziraphale asks suddenly.

Crowley knows that enough warmth has returned to her fingers by now to allow her to undo the shoelaces herself but – it wouldn’t do to let an opportunity pass up, would it? There must be some demonic reasoning-it-away that she can do later. Aziraphale isn’t the only one between them who excels at over-thinking, although Crowley is more prone to do so after the fact.

“Alright,” she says and sits down on the edge of her bed, shift and petticoat spread out around her so the high-shafted boots can be reached more easily[23].

“Right,” Aziraphale repeats.

And then he kneels down in front of her and gives her a small but sincere smile, and that does it for Crowley, that small smile, that tiny act of sitting there and wanting to help. There’s something about it.

He gently raises her foot and places it on his calf, disregarding the smudge of mud it leaves behind on his tan breeches. There’s a line of concentration between his brows as he tries to find the lacing under the mud, softly brushing over the leather. He catches it soon, but he pulls at it with only one hand. The other remains where it is, resting at the edge between Crowley’s boots and stockings, just a few inches below her embroidered garter. And gosh, she can feel the shape of his palm all too well, wants to feel it there – forever, really. It remains until the lacing is undone, and when Aziraphale finally slides the boot off, it follows along gently. It repeats the motion on the other side, too, and Aziraphale gently sets the boots aside. They’re aligned perfectly with the floorboards. Of course they are.

Aziraphale’s hand slides up again, gently reaching for the garter that holds Crowley’s stockings in place. It’s warm, so warm and tender, this touch of his. The light flickers over his white-blonde curls, tints them gold, just like the fine stitching bordering the garter. _Damn, if this doesn’t look right, side by side_. His well-manicured fingers tug at the band dotted with red flowers, tiny like bloodstains, until it drops and disappears[24]. The stocking follows suit, crisp fabric sliding down her skin, followed by Aziraphale’s careful palm. Crowley catches her breath.

He looks up at her, smiling softly, and his cheeks are flushed ever so slightly. It becomes him so well – it always has, really, all the way back to that first meeting in Eden. Perhaps they’ve been doomed since then. For all the things they say, they’ve been set to become friends since that very moment on the wall. Those soft lips were made to smile, those bright eyes crafted to shine with kindness.

Crowley can see that there must be something about herself too, for there’s a sparkle in Aziraphale’s eyes that’s all too similar to what she’s feeling. It’s tied to the smile, and to the blush, and to the unwavering steadfast gaze, and it’s an epiphany. It pulls at her like the rushing water of a burning stream, the bittersweet river the underworld is still missing to make torture complete. She wonders, she wonders, she wonders, what it would be like to kiss him, to hold him close and whisper words she’s longing for and despising at the same time.

_I want you, I care for you, let’s run off and live together forever. I want to be almost human with you, want to let down my guard not just once, not twice, but irrevocably. I burn for you, stronger than the hellfire within me. I adore you, you blessed fool, immeasurably._

And then she doesn’t wonder anymore.

She has considered the following: the distance between their mouths, the slightly reclined angle of her body on the bed and the tilt of her face necessary to look down at him as he works. What she has not considered is the fact that he would meet her halfway.

Their noses bump against each other and they both draw back a little. For a split second, she wants to reconsider, hold herself together for the both of them. She wants to take those feelings, bundle them up and lock them inside her chest, among the warm winter sheets.

She doesn’t. Aziraphale’s smiling, a little unsure maybe, and his gaze is so blessedly soft, she wants to bask in it. Crowley couldn’t tell which of them adjusts the angle, which one of them bridges the inch that’s left between them, but she can tell that Aziraphale’s lips are soft, just as soft as they look, when they press chastely against her mouth – well, as chaste as an angel kissing a demon can be.

It’s gentle, so much gentler than Crowley’s ever imagined[25]. A soft pressure, the lightest brush of a breath against her cheek, the feeling of being… _cherished_. Cherished and adored and treasured. It’s more than just a mouth meeting a mouth, it’s the feeling of coming home.

Aziraphale slowly breaks the kiss and looks at her, a mixture of concern and utter happiness. “Is this all right? I should have asked –”

“No – I mean, yes, it’s alright,” Crowley says, interrupting him before he can come up with a reason they shouldn’t be doing this[26].

Aziraphale looks at her with sincerity, mouthing _it’s alright_ back to her, as though it might make him believe it. Crowley wants to believe it, too, that in the overall course of things, this is something they’re allowed to do. She desperately wants the way he glances down at her lips to be alright, not just for her but in the grand scheme of things. It’s adorable, and she never wants it to end.

She traces a gentle line down Aziraphale’s cheek. There’s no way for Crowley to know if they’ll ever do this again, and she _wants_ this, wants the most she can get out of it. So she leans closer towards him, presses her lips against his slightly-parted mouth once more. It feels the same way, soft and welcoming. There’s so much tenderness in this, things Crowley shouldn’t want, but she wants them with Aziraphale. She wants the feeling of his breath against her cheek, wants the warmth of his mouth and the precision with which Aziraphale adjusts the angle. It shouldn’t feel so caring, a bit of precision, should it? But it makes their kiss so much _better_ , allows for their mouths to slot together like they belong.

Maybe that’s what Crowley has wanted all along, ever since she arrived in this village, to feel like she really belonged with Aziraphale. No, it’s not a thought she should entertain. She wouldn’t like the outcome of it. She hasn’t really belonged anywhere in a long time.

Aziraphale kisses her back, slow and languid. With a small amount of hesitation, he places his hands on her knees, steady and grounding. Crowley enjoys the touch, and she wants to return that feeling, so she slides her hands carefully around his middle, soft even through shirt and waistcoat. Or perhaps it’s the fabric, well-worn through the past decade or two.

They part and fall into each other again, this time without hesitation or questions. One kiss turns into a series of kisses, tenderness intermingling with a bit of rush, trying to get as much out of each other as possible. His warm palms are tracing gentle lines over the fabric of her clothes, rubbing gentle patterns into her knees. They’re soothing and comfortable, but Crowley wants something else, something more. She entwines her fingers with Aziraphale’s – spindly ones against blunt and broad hands – and guides them up to her face. Aziraphale understands immediately, knows the kind of contact that she craves. It’s a different way to be held. His palm, warm against her cheek, cradling her jaw both gently and firmly. His other hand, resting in the back of her neck, holding her close to him.

How long would she want this?

There’s a shift in weight as Aziraphale deepens their kiss, and he loses his footing a little, falling forward against Crowley. Her back hits the pillows and Aziraphale draws back, an apologetic look written across his face.

“I’m sorry. Is this still–?”

“Yes, you daft angel, kiss me again.”

Aziraphale sighs in relief, and he doesn’t hide it, and he presses a soft kiss to Crowley’s lips. The softness only lasts for a moment, though, before their kiss deepens once more. Crowley has never thought that it could feel _good_ , using her serpentine tongue like this, but it’s different when she’s doing it with Aziraphale – Aziraphale who doesn’t mind those demonic traits, who embraces them – embraces her. She could swear that he almost tastes like a spring breeze above a green meadow – and, bless her mind, that’s even tackier than saying he’s like sunshine. There’s something angelically wholesome about it, something clear and precise – Crowley’s grown somewhat used to this aura, it’s ingrained in the way Aziraphale smells, underneath whatever perfume or cologne is currently fashionable. She should despise it, but she doesn’t. Crowley finds it a little odd, something _not_ to think about in too much detail, but at the same time, it’s pleasant and thrilling. She revels in the way Aziraphale’s fingertips lightly brush over her neck, the steadiness of his palm against her cheek.

_Forever_ , that is the answer. Crowley would want this forever. It’s an exciting thought[27].

Thunder rolls over the village, a deep sound that sends a jolt through both of them, surprising them and tearing them away from each other for a moment. Silence falls between them and Crowley doesn’t dare to say anything for fear of breaking this thing they are stumbling into, slowly but steadily. She looks away, realising only now that the candle she lit upon entering has long since been extinguished and that the only sources of brightness are the occasional flashes of lightning and the glow of Aziraphale’s face in the dark.

She feels the adrenaline slowly fade from her body and other sensations fall into place again. The sudden warmth of her bed beneath her, the cold clinging to her feet, where a solitary stocking remains, the other half undone. The subdued sounds of their breathing, together, joined in the same exhilarated pattern. The wet lace of her discarded fichu sticks to her exposed forearms and she chuckles when Aziraphale raises his eyebrow in surprise, as though he has forgotten she had ever worn it.

Another wave of thunder rolls through the night sky and heavy raindrops come crashing against the roof, hitting the windowpane as though they were demanding to be let in. The rhythm of them, strong and relentless, feels like comfort. They are enclosed here, no-one but the two of them and the steady rain, carried by a breeze that suddenly seems so much more bashful.

Aziraphale’s hands move up to cup her cheeks again, caressing the sensitive, exposed skin of her neck. They are warm, so warm and gentle, as he runs his thumb over her cheekbone and lets it come to rest on her lips for a moment before bowing down to kiss her again. Soft, soft and tender this time, almost as if they were meant to be doing this, now and for the rest of time. She can feel him close, hear the soothing rain and smell the cinnamon-sweetness of his cologne.

He presses gentle kisses to the corners of Crowley’s mouth, to the thin, sharp lines of her cheekbones before returning to her lips. Crowley can see the smile that reaches his half-lidded eyes, the soft wrinkles crinkling there. It makes her want to reach out again, so she does; for once, she simply does it, sinks her hand into Aziraphale’s lightning-bright curls and revels in feeling them against her palm. She runs her fingers through them and it draws a happy sigh out of Aziraphale, a sound she wants to commit to memory. Crowley’s heard something like it before, over a good bottle of wine, or last morning’s brioche, but this time, it’s her doing, directed at her, hers to keep.

Aziraphale presses closer against her, wraps her up in his strong arms, and kisses her more fiercely. His hands run gently over her back, brushing against the linen fabric of his own banyan, as though he wants to count her ribs. With the increasing heat of their kissing, his hands begin to wander a little, tracing her collarbones and running palms up and down her sides. Crowley basks in the warmth of them, the careful hesitation that still underlies the touch. If she wanted him to stop, she wouldn’t even have to say it, a small movement would be enough.

The problem is – she doesn’t want it to end, _ever_.

Aziraphale trails kisses along the sharp line of her jaw, his nose brushing over her cheek as he moves from one spot to the next. His teeth are gently scraping across her skin, leaving behind a sensation she wants to hold on to, file away to think about later. That warm mouth travels down, from cheek, to jaw, to chin, and settles on her neck. Soft, swift kisses brush over her throat in quick succession, making her heart beat faster with sweet excitement. After the piercing cold of the rain, the numbness the wind had worn into her very bone, it almost sets her ablaze.

And then, Aziraphale begins to suck a bruise into her neck and it’s a _thing_. At first, it’s a surprise, but the feeling quickly turns pleasant. The warmth of Aziraphale’s affection mingles with his own want, and Crowley can feel it, can feel it in the action, in his aura, in the gentleness that underlies everything. Lips, teeth, gentleness. Skin, tongue, gentleness. It all returns to a fixed point and Crowley knows that this is _him_ , the quintessence that makes up Aziraphale’s nature, a chosen softness.

She briefly wonders how long the bruise will stay, if she will have to cover it up.

When Aziraphale slowly moves away, he places another kiss to the same spot of skin and smiles at her. Crowley pulls him down into a kiss, sweet and languid and deep.

His eyes are clouded with bright adoration when they break apart, and it seeps into his words when he speaks as well.

“There’s no-one here to stop us, just the two of us,” he whispers against Crowley’s skin. “No-one else in this storm, no humans, no head office…”

Crowley can hear the slight tremble in his voice, the faintest trace of it – an insecurity – no a fear rather, as old as time. Where actions may take you when you’re given free reign. Maybe it’s this, maybe it’s the sudden rumble of thunder that rolls over the village, it doesn’t matter. Consequences start to flash across Crowley’s mind – being discovered by the other demon, news reaching head office… destroying what they are to each other, because the morning will surely come, and with the morning, the world will look different, more serious and unforgiving and the best thing they can have is a pretence that nothing ever happened.

Crowley clears her throat and places a gentle, but determined hand on Aziraphale’s chest. “There _is_ someone, though. I’m here to stop us.”

Aziraphale looks at her, suddenly struck with a realisation himself. It plays out on his face, in the movement of his eyes and the harsh lines that form around his mouth, red and bitten. His hands are heavy as lead on her ribs.

“Right,” he says. “I should – I should –”

He disentangles himself from Crowley’s body, lets his hands slip away. With a weary sigh, he sits down on the side of the bed and straightens his cuffs. There’s a rigid line to his shoulders, more so than usual.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” he says, firmly. “I am quite sorry. I got rather… carried away.”

“Yeah, right. Better not – better not bring it up again,” Crowley says, swallowing hard.

Aziraphale doesn’t dare meet her eye. “Right. Good. I’ll best… leave you alone, then.”

With those words, he gets up and leaves, without as much as a look in Crowley’s direction. She watches him leave and close the door, wordlessly. Even though her heart calls out for her to go after him, she knows it’s better to leave things like this. A clean cut to end whatever carried them away.

Her corporation is already losing some of its rush-induced heat, bit by heartbreaking bit, as the warmth of Aziraphale’s embrace fades. The ghost of his kisses still dances over her lips, leaves them prickling with bittersweet, pin-stab pain. The traces of his caresses make the small hairs on her arms stand up. Crowley could shiver.

And yet, she doesn’t quite know how to think about this… this situation. Of course it hurts, but only a little, it’s still sinking in, like the last remainders of a thunderstorm that tears a land apart. She’s numb, but it’s also a relief.

The wetness of her clothes has dampened the bedsheets and Crowley begins to feel their cold seeping through her bones and marrow. She feels the coarse, dripping curls plastered against her head too, and they’re a right mess. Linen clings to every inch of exposed skin, skin that has been _touched_ just minutes ago. Not just touched as though it were something casual, touched with reverence. She’s drenched, but she’s also warmed.

Perhaps it’s the banyan that warms her. Crowley doesn’t know when its sleeves have ridden up, exposed inches of skin between the snake bracelet on her wrists and her undergarments. The only moment she can pinpoint is when she felt Aziraphale’s breath on them, when they touched his cheeks, his curls, left them ever so slightly damp. She knows that she should take it off, return it to its rightful owner and lessen the pain every second of wearing it and smelling Aziraphale on it induces. She doesn’t. Instead, she turns her head, buries her nose in the bright blue fabric. Cinnamon, strong, sharp and overwhelming.

Crowley touches the bruise forming on her neck. An odd thing, isn’t it? Another constant reminder now, but it will have faded in a few days, faded like the memory of it never can, never will. Humans call these a love bite, don’t they? And isn’t that a gut-wrenching bit of irony, the leftover of a love that can’t ever be revealed imprinted on her skin, for all to see.

There will be more space for pain in the morning. Calling it a mistake, a slip-up, is the best thing they can do and Crowley knows that, and Aziraphale knows it too, just as she knows that she will think about this for centuries to come. Let it hurt, let it burn her, that’s future Crowley’s problem.

For now, let her feel empty, she thinks as she lies in the dark and listens to the rain. It’s relentless, unchanged and monotonous. At least there’s one constant in the ever-changing ways of the world. Maybe not just that. There’s also the smell of Aziraphale, clinging to the banyan that is still wrapped around her shoulders. It won’t ever leave her, not until Kingdom Come and beyond.

**Footnotes:**

[21] The natural result of how unsuccessful she was at the game in the past days. Aziraphale has offered to tell her a thing or two about his secrets to win. Crowley has offered to play nine men’s morris instead, but Aziraphale knows too well that he hasn’t won a single round of that ever since they first played it at a tavern in Rome. He has declined checkers, too.

[22] An utterly delightful, albeit historically rather inaccurate novel about a young man making his way throughout ancient Greece. Crowley had laughed at the passage too, and remarked that “ _I remember Athens somewhat less… voluptuous than that_.”

[23] They’re men’s boots – they’re designed to be easy to take off, but neither of them are paying attention to that very obvious fact.

[24] A few weeks later, Aziraphale will look at it and see the comparison, too. He never intended to keep the garter, but in a thoughtless moment, he slips it into his coat pocket, for safekeeping.

[25] And _oh,_ has Crowley imagined. Thousands of times, as a matter of fact, in thousands of different ways. None of them live up to the real thing.

[26] She knows that there are uncountable reasons not to do this, but she doesn’t want to think about them, not now, not unless he were to ask her again.

[27] She will find it less exciting at a later time, when the initial rush has faded and she recognises the depth of her realisation. And at an even later date, long after the night of the rainstorm and shortly after the End which did not come to be, Crowley will tell himself that he was right all along, and that _forever_ truly is what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this chapter wouldn't have been nearly as close to what I wanted it to be without the help of my beta Thyra279. Some of the dialogue in this were the first snippets I wrote of this fic and Thyra kept encouraging me to reach this point.
> 
> I expect the next update to happen in around two weeks. This chapter and its length kept me occupied for a long time, so I'm a bit behind on writing.


	7. To Hell with it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale both have feelings to cope with. At the same time, they are also getting closer to finding out who they're dealing with.

_To that heated blood, a cool transfusion._ _  
(J. W. Goethe, To Charlotte von Stein)_

_September 26, 1771._

Morning comes, as it is wont to do, with sunbeams climbing up the white-washed walls. Crowley notices little of it, a shift in warmth maybe, a bit of brightness; she lays there with her eyes and her heart closed off.

It still fucking hurts. She doesn’t know why she would ever have expected something else, that she could just… get over a world getting turned upside down through a few hours of sleep. It’s ridiculous, really. Others would tell Crowley that she’s supposed to feel lucky to have kissed Aziraphale, but it does rather shake one’s worldview when one’s best friend suddenly… snogs you, for lack of better words.

It’s not just that of course. Aziraphale has principles – and – and morals – and he’s careful, and Crowley has just taken the stopper out of the bottle and allowed him to spill whatever emotional cocktail was contained inside. After centuries – millennia of trying to do that exact thing, this feels like the wrong way of inciting him to throw his principles over the edge that he’d been balancing on for far too long. It feels oddly disappointing, too, aside from the hurt, like they’ve both failed at fulfilling their respective roles. The anxious, worrying hesitance that Aziraphale carries with him wherever he goes and Crowley’s subtle temptations that were never supposed to _harm_ Aziraphale, not really.

The thing is – Crowley thinks, rolling over and opening her eyes – they were never _meant_ to reach this point. She knows that there is no hope in this and that all the last evening could achieve is the knowledge that the feeling, whatever it is, is mutual. They wouldn’t talk about it, that just isn’t the way they handle things, and they can’t continue doing it either. Even if Crowley disregards the consequences they could encounter if the other demon saw them and reported their... intimacy, she is well aware of the fact that she would still run the risk of harm. If she and Aziraphale kept going, playing at being a happy couple while they posed as humans here, kissing, touching and exchanging gentle words, Crowley wouldn’t ever want it to end. There would be no way to stop the avalanche of emotion that has started its slow, torturous slide with the first press of Aziraphale’s mouth against hers, not even by going back to London and trying to forget all about Herr Fell and Madame Crowley. Better to cease and run now than to wait until impact is inevitable. Except running is impossible.

Crowley has always preferred not to think of them as a love story, ever since she noticed that such emotions were likely involved on both sides, despite knowing that humans have been referring to them as such. There’s no possibility for a happy ending for them, there can’t _ever_ be one, not with Heaven and Hell looming behind their backs. It could be a tragedy instead, if Crowley were to go with the other option for endings humans enjoy so much, but even that seems frightfully impossible for them. Their story won’t ever end with a _and they missed their connection and fell for someone else_. It won’t end with a goblet of poison and a dagger. If there ever were an ending, it would be complete destruction, taken out of their own hands. They’re forever stuck in the final act, where the rising action has long abated and they’re drifting towards the coda they can never reach[28].

There won’t ever be an option that ends with _Aziraphale and Crowley are free to choose each other, to leave behind Heaven and Hell and be who they are._

And doesn’t that fucking hurt?

Perhaps that’s the reason why Crowley’s heart is bleeding. Perhaps it’s the suspicion that Aziraphale doesn’t feel the same way, that he suffers less because he is so good at denying himself things, at reasoning away potential missteps. He’s probably sitting downstairs in his armchair, reading a book like nothing has happened, having filed away their kisses as a one-time-only slip-up.

She'd been an idiot, thinking that playing house with an angel would come without consequences. And now the consequences are here, staring her right in the face as they reach into Crowley’s chest and tears her ribcage apart to grasp her stupid, uselessly beating heart. There’s no left, no right, just lost faith and lost pride. An angel who has toppled off the pedestal she foolishly placed him on.

Crowley takes a breath. Right. There’s no use in contemplating those blessed conflicted feelings until Kingdom Come[29]. What matters now is to forget about them as much as possible, shove them into the furthest corner of her mind and not let them show. Crowley is good at pretending, she can make it seem like everything’s alright.

Why wouldn’t it be? _Something, something, metaphors_. There, that should be enough to settle the matter and her ever-restless mind.

Crowley waits. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes. Ten. It’s alright.

 _It’s not_.

She puts on her glasses. Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty. It’s alright.

 _Crowley is good at pretending, and emptiness is better than heartbreak anyway_.

Thirty-five, a knock at the door. Luise’s face and her hands trembling very slightly as she pushes the door open. Crowley slinks off the bed quickly at the sight. Of course, the storm last night would have had an effect on the humans. It would under any circumstances, demonic intervention or not – this variety of weather, from late-summer sunshine to ice-cold hail to thunder would concern anyone who isn’t used to it while also being dependent on a harvest that cannot fail.

“You good, Luise?” Crowley asks, eager to find out what else has transpired between the storm and now.

“I –” the girl begins, trying to force a smile that fades far too quickly. “No. Do you wish to get dressed?”

Crowley nods. She understands well by now: Luise speaks far more freely when she doesn’t have to face her mistress, trips over opinions like a waterfall rushes past stones. And indeed, the moment she rushes over to the chair to inspect the damage the storm has caused to Crowley’s clothes, she starts to speak, even though her hands still betray her nerves.

“My mother, she – I thought she would get _better_ now. Herr Fell was so helpful when he visited. I don’t know what he did but it seemed to do her good.” Luise sighs, picking up the first layer. “And now, she’s – oh dear, that’s quite a stain. At least it’s just the petticoat, so it won’t be visible under the skirt, but I will clean it later tonight.”

She falls silent as she helps Crowley tie the bands but it’s easy to predict what will follow as soon as she picks up the stays and pulls the laces into place. “It’s getting worse now, that’s the thing, and I don’t know why.”

“That… shouldn’t be happening.”

Crowley doesn’t like the fact that Aziraphale’s miracles are failing to work. It could be coincidence, but coincidences are rarer than expected in this village. If it is the other demon’s work, this might be the net of their trap tying itself closer around the two of them.

“I know,” Luise says. “It’s unfair. It’s never fair. The world isn’t fair.”

It’s not. It never was, not even before the world as the humans know it began.

“That’s divine justice for you,” Crowley replies, pulling the suspenders of her stays into place. “What does a single human matter to the Great Plan?”

Luise hesitates, more fabric in hand. “Is it so wrong to wish that your loved ones _are_ the humans who matter?”

“I don’t know.” She doesn’t. God hasn’t ever shared Her plans, least of all with low-ranking angels like Crowley had been before the Fall.

“Well,” the girl says, carefully brushing out the outer skirt. “Let’s not dwell on that. There’s nothing we can do about it anyway, and I shouldn’t like to talk more about it.” A short break, as Luise fumbles with the band on this skirt. “I was rather worried about you, you know. Herr Fell seemed so antsy this morning, I thought something had happened. I am grateful to see you here in one piece.”

Crowley scoffs. She supposes that it’s rather kind of the girl to worry about her, but accepting kindness isn’t really Crowley’s thing, now is it? Hearing that Aziraphale is “antsy”, however, lets new questions rise in Crowley’s mind, questions that stretch into wildly different directions[30].

“I wasn’t ever in danger,” she says, waving Luise’s concern away.

“Still. We couldn’t have known that, now could we? Lift your arms a little so I can put the dress on you.”

Crowley does it, unquestioning. Luise babbles on during her task, expresses her gratitude for the storm not harming her mistress once more, and suddenly comes to a halt. With a soft _oh_ , she drops her hands from the sides of the dress and a pin slips from her grip.

“What is it?”

Luise’s cheeks redden and she hurriedly picks up the pin, hesitantly holding back on the sentence that lies on the tip of her tongue. She opens her mouth, closes it again, and finally sputters, “I’m glad to see that you and Herr Fell worked out whatever you were arguing over yesterday.”

Crowley might be a bit confused at that. She hasn’t talked to Luise at all about the argument. And apart from that: “We didn’t?”

The blush on the girl’s cheeks deepens. “Well, whatever it is – erm –”

Her pointed look trails from Crowley’s glasses down to her neck, settles on a spot just above the junction of her throat and shoulder. She clears her throat, as if to ensure that her point comes across. _Ah, shit._ That happened.

“Hnngh,” is Crowley’s first response. The second response is a wrinkle of her nose.

Luise picks up the pins again and pulls the stomacher and dress together. A small smile passes over her lips, mellow and without judgement – albeit not without a bit of amusement.

“I certainly remember when you told me you don’t fancy him, but I think I understand now. I am very happy for you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley hisses.

The last thing she needs is for the topic to be brought up over and over again, being told that she should be happy over it. It is _not_ something to be happy about. Luise’s expression softens, as though she even has a fraction of the mind to understand Crowley’s struggle.

“Well, then,” Luise says. “We’ll cover it up.”

Perhaps she does. Understand it a little, that is. Crowley gives her a sharp nod, and Luise starts shifting through the clothes that Crowley bought from Vienna. She finds another fichu to replace the one destroyed by the storm[31] and goes about sticking it firmly under the seam of the dress. Her hands are swift and precise, fixing the folds and bunching the fabric just right so she can pin it in place properly.

“There,” she says softly. “It should stay in place like that.”

Crowley nods, gives her a small, tight smile. It’s clear enough, a _thank you_ , and Luise accepts it with all the grace a domestic servant can have at a rare display of gratefulness. She’s a good one; she cares but doesn’t make other people’s issues her business, not when they’re not supposed to be a grand, big thing.

Not a grand, big thing. Yeah, right?

Crowley should get all that out of her head, find something to work on today, avoid the uncomfortable silences that will invariably fall between Aziraphale and her. She might have an idea. It’s not a good idea, not by any stretch of imagination, but it might be an effective one. This is the exact time where an _I know someone_ can get them out of the worst of their luck.

Right. Let’s get to work then.

* * *

Aziraphale is waiting. He doesn’t quite know _what_ he is waiting for. The obvious answer would be that he is anxiously awaiting the moment Crowley comes downstairs, when a conversation might or might not happen, but perhaps he’s waiting for this morning to be over. There’s little hope of anything good in this, only nervous tension and imminent disappointment.

He feels full of confusion. Aziraphale just can’t explain to himself how he has allowed himself to slip up like that. Over five thousand seven hundred years on Earth and he has _never_ given in to the urge to touch, to caress, to kiss. He doesn’t know how long he’s felt it. The wanting-to-touch-bit perhaps since the first day – he saw the humans do it, how they held each other’s hand in this wondrous new world, squeezed when they were scared. Aziraphale had wanted to have someone to reach out to, too. And then, on that fateful day, Crowley had appeared and turned his worldview upside down.

What happened between them last night had been... nice, but it wasn't just that. Why did it have to hurt so much now, knowing that it couldn't happen again? He had tried to explain it to himself, that he wanted Crowley, and that that was all. Just an itch, a need for touch and proximity. That Crowley was attractive, in any way, shape and form, and that this was the sole reason why his mind had focused on the demon, but that wasn't quite the truth, and he couldn't risk getting more aware of that by the minute. Such thoughts lie best repressed under the surface, intangible and word-less.

Aziraphale doesn’t even know when these feelings started. He’s known that he harboured some, whatever variety they were of, but until now, it was so easy to ignore them. Well, easier than facing them at least. If there’s one thing he doesn’t want to do, it’s to draw a line, a shape, a three-dimensional monstrosity that’s supposed to be an envelope he can stuff his emotions inside. Seal it, put a stamp on it, send it to blessed Heaven, why wouldn’t he, since he’s wrapping up everything so nicely already?

There’s always consequences.

Awareness tends to enhance those bottled up emotions in a way that _changes_ things. The most dangerous consequences are always looming at the back of his mind, upstairs, downstairs and apparently in between too, now. It’s not just that, though. There’s a fear that’s worse than Heaven and Hell combined, and that’s losing Crowley. Not just losing Crowley forever through outside forces, but also the idea that he might lose the being he loves the most through his own folly, through an emotional, trust-wrecking difference.

Loves – _loves_ – _**loves**_ , there’s a thought.

He doesn’t want to think the thought, though. It’s not just facing the feelings. He finds himself oddly disappointed. Holding feelings like that for the enemy can’t be right, can it? It can’t be morally right of him to give in to that, to put this kind of dedication into something that can never come to bloom. He has berated himself over and over throughout the night, past break of dawn and until now. To act on feelings he had never allowed himself to examine, that can’t have been _right_. It’s not fair, not to either of them.

There are no _ifs_ and _buts_ , only regrets.

It can’t ever happen again. All he has – and will always have – is a memory. It almost seems as though he could still feel the cool metal of her snake bracelet against his temple, her fingers raking through his hair. Skin, cool, rain-worn skin under his palms. Aziraphale understands too well why knowledge is considered a curse. They can’t even share the curse. What should he tell Crowley? _I feel a desire for you that I cannot put into words_? It's unthinkable.

The floorboards creak in a familiar left-right, down-down-down pattern. Aziraphale doesn’t know how to react – that’s becoming a pattern too, isn’t it? – so he waits with bated breath. Crowley slips past the parlour, stops in front of the mirror in the corridor to adjust sunglasses and cap. She’s going to leave, it appears.

“Where are you going?” Aziraphale calls out to her.

Crowley snorts, as though she’s heard a joke no-one but her is in on. “To Hell,” she says.

Aziraphale rises from his reading chair and before he can decide that he knows better, he’s standing next to her. He can’t help it.

“No, in earnest, where are you going, Crowley?”

“To Hell.”

The smirk around her mouth fades. She means it. Aziraphale feels a little anxious about the prospect of a journey to Hell at this point in time, not knowing which dangers may loom there, what knowledge they have of Crowley and Aziraphale’s… entanglement. It’s not Aziraphale’s place to tell her what she should or shouldn’t do, but he can feel the worry tugging at his heartstrings. The thought of something going wrong tears him apart.

“Please be careful, if that’s at all possible.”

Crowley looks at him, her eyes hidden behind the sunglasses. Still, her drawn brows express a different kind of worry, a more gentle one. A _your-worries-worry-me-too_ kind of frown. Aziraphale knows that Crowley’s never wanted his pity. Worry has always been a complicated thing, too. Maybe Aziraphale has misstepped all along, crossed lines he couldn’t even see. It’s a terrifying, heart-wrenching thought.

They’re standing next to each other, reflections in the mirror. Flat, lifeless, distorted. Aziraphale knows that this is what fear can do to people, how it can drain the colour out of them. He doesn’t want this to be his future. He doesn’t want it to be Crowley’s future either.

“I’ll try,” Crowley finally says. There’s something like forgiveness in her voice, or at least Aziraphale hopes there is. “Stay put.”

“I’ll see you tonight,” he replies, softly.

Crowley nods sharply and leaves. Aziraphale is left behind, worrying.

At first, he settles in his armchair and pulls up the notebook he’s started to fill with their research. There are a few points that pique his interest, but in the grand scheme of it all, it leads him nowhere. Yes, there are clues, interactions the demon may have had with other village-dwellers, but it doesn’t give him a name, a motivation or any other identifying details. They’ll hardly be running around with a dog’s head, or with a predator’s teeth, or feathers instead of cuffs.

Aziraphale nearly jumps out of his skin when Luise picks up last night’s tea cups and they clatter against the saucers. Is that what Crowley felt like yesterday, waiting until Aziraphale returned and brought the news of the day, stuck without something to do?[32] He understands better now, understands what got Crowley so agitated and, after a while, angry when Aziraphale showed no understanding. Now he’s willing to forgive more easily, experiencing a similar thing.

“Don’t worry,” Luise tells him, the second time he jolts at a noise. “Things will work out in the end. I know you will fix them.”

Aziraphale gives her a weak smile. “I hope so. Thank you.”

“You can count on me, Herr Fell. We all need a pick-me-up from time to time.”

That much is definitely true. And Aziraphale can appreciate it. When he turns his attention towards their notes again and flips a page, a single line catches his eye. It’s neatly written, but in the capital letters people don’t tend to use outside of print, as opposed to Aziraphale’s accurate, period-appropriate cursive. Crowley’s handwriting still has something of engraved Latin steles, albeit with a higher level of legibility. Aziraphale takes a closer look and the content of the note surprises him:

_SEPT. 24 -- CH. SALZINGER POSSIBLY INTERACTED WITH DEMON. QUESTIONING NEEDED._

Aziraphale nearly drops the notebook on the floor. How could he not _know_ about that? Right, the note was added on their evening off, and ever since then, the situation between the two of them has been all different kinds of fraught. This – this could be the clue they’ve been waiting for. Perhaps Fräulein Salzinger has more information – how the demon looks, where they came from, what purpose led them to Salzinger’s house.

That’s it, that’s what he will be doing today; he will pay them a visit. Charlotte would trust him enough to talk, wouldn’t she? And when Crowley returns in the evening, they will hopefully be a step closer to solving this ill-advised mystery game and being as safe as possible.

* * *

Crowley has found the perfect place to open a portal to Hell, a meadow outside of the village, so muddy that any other person’s presence could be tracked by imprints of their shoes, but there are none. It’s about as far from the ravine, where she thinks the other demon hides, as possible. If everything goes right, for once, no-one should notice what happened.

It’s been a while since she’s used any entrance other than the permanent ones in major cities. She’s almost forgotten the effort it takes to map out the right sigils, burn them into the wet, sticky ground. The hellfire Crowley conjures up should be enough to send her to the desired place, if she gets the signs right. If not, well – she’s heard stories of the consequences.

The portal is complete within a few minutes, scratched into the ground. Small hellfire flames are dancing across the earth, scorching their way past the plants, tearing a crack into the barrier between the realm of the humans and Hell. Steps manifest in the ground because Crowley wants them to be steps, not a free-falling plunge like the portals she’s seen other demons open. She hates the feeling of her stomach twisting, going _down, down and down_.

Her boots clack on the stairs as she descends, further and further into the gloomy shithole that is Hell. Her skirts brush up against the walls, always there, closing in. Crowley groans, annoyed. She snaps her fingers, and a blink later, the skirts are gone, replaced by tightly cut, fashionable breeches in shimmering black. There, much better suited to the environment than the wide skirts[33].

Crowley reaches the hall where demons queue to get their paperwork done. What she needs now is a permission slip that will allow her to pass through to the administration area, to where she can reach someone who owes her a favour. Dagon’s cronies are rotating their usual shifts, and they’re just as slow as they always are. It’s inherently a part of the bureaucratic experience, Crowley thinks, the huge amount of time you’re wasting just to get a scrap of paper.

An hour passes, then another one, and Crowley waits. It would be an excellent time to think, but whenever she’s in Hell, she feels like her thoughts need to be guarded. Wherever she goes here, it feels like innumerable eyes are burning their stares into her neck. Sometimes, Crowley wonders if Heaven felt the same way. She doesn’t remember.

“Next!” the demon behind the desk calls out and Crowley steps up.

The clerk gives her a curious look, and Crowley can see why. With her human clothing, coiffed hair and sunglasses, she seems strangely out of place here. Too refined for the queue waiting in the grime and dirt of lower management, demons who never get to go up and see the light.

The demon on the other side of the counter now eyes her up with suspicion. Crowley notices the slime bubbling on the clerk’s cheeks.

“State your business,” they drawl.

“I need a permit to get through to the administration office,” Crowley says, in the most lazy and languid tone she can muster. “Make it quick.”

They sneer and their tone is hostile. “Why d’you need a permit? Got an order from the higher ups?”

“Need to hand in a report in person. It’s confidential. Don’t keep me waiting.”

She doesn’t have to say _or else_. It’s strongly implied in her words. The clerk still seems a little unconvinced but when Crowley raises an eyebrow, they don’t object. Instead, they pick up a hollowed-out reed pen, dip it into gall-black ink and start writing.

“Sign here,” they say, pushing the slip over the counter.

The ink is gooey and thick when Crowley adds her sigil at the bottom of it. It dries with a quick miracle. The clerk sends her off down a dark corridor – dark even by Hell’s standards – and Crowley makes a mental note to destroy the paper as soon as possible. The fewer clues to track her by, the better.

She reaches a large space, where desks are spread out in uneven rows. Demons are bustling around the area, carrying documents, books and quills. A couple of them are sorting a collection of drawings and plans into a shelf labelled _Construction and Modernisation Department_. If the gossip Crowley’s heard is right, they’re collecting references for the new entrance they want to build in London, something shiny and modern to lure unsuspecting humans inside.

Crowley’s eyes scan the workers as she crosses the space, looking out for a familiar face, or more prominently, a familiar hairstyle. She has to pass almost the entire floor until she spots him, with his bunny-ear hair and modern clothes decked in unexplainable knitwear. Blue on black, paired with gloves where the fingers are cut off and a splatter of black khol around his eyes.

“Eric!” she calls out and he jolts at his desk, smudging ink across whatever he’s writing.

When Eric turns, he quickly rubs his hands dry on his breeches and smiles at her before walking over. He still has the same energetic aura about him, just like Crowley remembers him.

“Crowley, how terrific to see you! It’s been, what, 150 – 200 years?” He clasps Crowley’s hand with a strong grip. “You doing well up there?”

“As well as anyone can do, I’d say. ‘s been a good century.”

“Really? Last time I was up there was during the war, the religious one, y’know, 1618 to 16-something? That was… _grimy_.”

Eric grins a lopsided grin at Crowley and she shudders. She’s never understood why some of her folks are so set on human religious wars, as if they hadn’t all fought in a war of their own, for what humans might consider religious reasons.

“Very gruesome, yes,” Crowley says, definitely less enthusiastic than Eric. “Humans seem hellbent on killing each other every couple centuries or so.”

“You’ve really seen it all, haven’t you?” Eric jokes, elbowing Crowley in the ribs. “Satan, I’m so jealous of you sometimes. Must be amazing to be up there all the time, tempting all those humans. Coming up with _crazy_ inventions.”

Now it’s Crowley’s turn to grin. Making up things and schemes to get humans entangled in their own sins is one of the great aspects of being on Earth, Eric’s right about that. She’s not here to gush about her job and her achievements, though.

“It’s alright. You’ve been doing well, too, if I had to guess?”

“I am, yeah. Glad I finally got out of that shithole of a mailroom. All due to you of course. Administration is a lot better, and the game nights are great. You really should stop by sometime – bet you’ve never played Chess of Death up there.”

Crowley has indeed never played Chess of Death, so she grins and nods. This is a better opening than she’d expected to get.

“Look, I hate to bring it up like that, but you still owe me a favour because of that mailroom thing[34].”

Eric squints. He’s a bright guy, of course he immediately realises that this is the reason behind Crowley’s visit. It’s something pals do in Hell, trade favours and debts and guilt. Eric is one of the few other demons Crowley would count on that list. That doesn’t mean that she trusts him, of course not. Just like she told Aziraphale a few days ago – it’s never a good idea to go around trusting demons.

“Yeah, I know,” Eric says, his voice dropping lower. “I take it you’re getting back on that now?”

“I am, yes.”

“Okay. Sure. Let me just…” He turns back to his desk and gathers his documents, flipping books closed and stopping them from sliding down the wooden top. When everything is hidden well enough to keep passersby from snooping, Eric slinks back to Crowley’s side and leads her away from the bustling office area. “What’s the deal?”

“Eric, I need you to keep your mouth shut about this, yeah? I know you’re chatty, but this is important. High stakes and everything. I don’t know what I stumbled into here, but it’s something big.”

Crowley has always liked telling a story, and she has grown very, _very_ good at lying over the millennia she’s spent on Earth.

* * *

Aziraphale arrives at Salzinger’s cottage around midafternoon, early enough to make sure that the older daughters aren’t going out for a dance, although considering the events at one of the recent dances, it might not be something Charlotte is too keen on.

Approaching the cottage, he can already see the children playing on the grass. There’s so many of them, the young ones with their dolls and hobby horses and the older ones with their dice games. They’re happy and healthy, and Aziraphale smiles at that – he’s always liked seeing young humans at peace with themselves, enjoying nature.

Charlotte is sitting on a bench under an apple tree, heavy with fruit and slowly changing leaves. She stitches something onto a tablecloth, brow furrowed in concentration. When Aziraphale calls out in greeting, she sets down her work and waves at him, an invitation to join her.

It’s a bit chilly in the shade of the tree and Aziraphale shudders for a moment as he sits down. Charlotte seems to be in a good mood, so that’s promising. At least one thing that does not feel like it is going terribly wrong today.

“Good day, Herr Fell. How are you?”

Aziraphale forces a polite smile. “Jolly good. What about you, Fräulein Salzinger?”

“Oh, I am doing rather well. My fiancé and I will be attending a salon later this evening.”

“How lovely!”

“I thought this might be interesting to you too – perhaps you and Madame Crowley would like to attend as well? We could pick you up on our way there.”

“Oh, I am rather afraid that will not be possible… Madame isn’t very well.”

“Give my love to her, then. I hope for her quick recovery.”

“Thank you, my dear. I regret having to ask you this so bluntly, but there is a reason for my visit. My maid, Luise, related to my sister that she encountered a strange rider in our neighbourhood and mentioned that you have encountered this person as well. Madame expressed a certain worry about such a man, so I find myself having to ask...”

After all those millennia on Earth, Aziraphale finds he has a certain propensity for white lies. Just a little tweak to the truth here and there, for the humans’ own sake. It’s not much of a stretch either, this time, although Aziraphale is generally by far the more worried one of the two.

The colour drains from Charlotte’s face and Aziraphale can see the shiver that passes over her. She clears her throat, once, twice, and fidgets when she responds.

“Herr Fell, this is a very discomforting question. I have indeed met such a… person, a couple of days ago. It was a rider indeed, and… he said that he bore a message for me, from my fiancé, but I never _received_ such a message. I can barely recall what was said, but – but he spoke of – of crime and–”

“Of sins? Of the many opportunities to commit them?”

“Yes.” She remains quiet for a moment and shifts, as though she could shake off the distaste left behind in her mouth. “I remember that I felt _cold_ all of a sudden and shook. My heart was gripped by fear.”

Aziraphale nods and gives her an encouraging smile. “Did you feel inclined to heed the… advice he gave you?”

Charlotte drops her tablecloth, nearly jumps to her feet at the question. “I would never! What do you think of me?”

“My words weren’t meant to be an accusation. Sometimes, the idea of a temptation can be stronger than the virtue of a saint.”

Her eyes betray her, but only momentarily. Within a blink, Charlotte’s expression changes, shifts into a cold facade of detached politeness. It’s a clear rejection. And yet, her hands still tremble when she picks up the cloth.

“I think it would be better if you were to leave now, Herr Fell. Good afternoon.”

She turns and walks back to the house. Aziraphale watches her leave as he rises himself, sees the stiffness and discomfort in her shoulders. He feels sorry for her, the poor girl, but at the same time, he can’t help being a little proud of himself. It’s clear as day to him, that the rider Luise and Charlotte both saw is indeed the demon they’ve been searching for.

The sky doesn’t darken as Aziraphale walks back home, as he would have expected after a realisation like that. The birds still sing, the children still play. He will tell Crowley as soon as she returns, but until then, he will make himself useful. If he can map out all the incidents during which the demon was seen or felt, he might find a connection, to a certain place or a certain sin. Luise might help him obtain a proper description.

So far, so good, isn’t it? Aziraphale will fix this problem, and once he’s done that, he can go about mending two broken hearts.

* * *

“I can’t believe that someone would do that. Just… go feral. Become native. Turn their back on Hell.”

Crowley shoots Eric a look over the rim of her glasses, silences him with a stare. “Look, I never said it’s a fact. I still need some proof.”

“Cool. I mean, it’s not cool, of course, to have a traitor,” Eric says as he unlocks the door to the documentation chamber. The key makes a dreadful sound in the lock, a goosebump-raising scratching of metal on metal.

The door swings open and a cloud of dust and mildew wafts towards them. Crowley holds back a sneeze. Hell may pride itself on its record-keeping, but it isn’t known for keeping them in good condition. A vast hall spans in front of them, filled with shelves that are stacked to the brim with tablets, scrolls and books. Eric leads them past a couple of them to a desk that’s decked in newer scraps of paper, in drawings and letters. A large tome lies next to them, labelled _Records, 1700-1800_.

“That stack over there is the records we haven’t collected yet. There’s a list somewhere ‘round here that’s keeping track of records which haven’t been handed in.”

“So you think we can single out the traitor because they handed in reports late or have unexplained absences?”

Crowley’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. In the 700 years of working with Aziraphale, she’s had less than a dozen late reports[35]. She would know that it’s not a late report that marks disloyalty.

Eric sighs. “Look, Crowley, either we try it this way, or we can give up right now. Do you want to run around and ask everyone if they’re a traitor? I wouldn’t. Can’t imagine Hastur would be too thrilled.”

He picks up a few sheets and looks over them until he finds the right one. It’s a list, or at least the beginning of one. Crowley starts to feel a little anxious. If this doesn’t work out, she doesn’t have a plan B.

Eric hands her the first sheet. “There’s two mentions of missed reports by the same demon. You know her? Face like an owl?”

“I met her a while back in Constantinople. I’ll keep her in mind.”

Eric keeps shifting through the list, reading names off it, but none of them have more than two missed reports in a row to them. It’s not enough to Crowley. There must be more behind it.

It’s an odd thought, that someone she _knows_ might be after them. She never was good friends with the demon she met in Constantinople – Malefleur was her name – but it’s a terrifying idea nonetheless, that she might have made a single remark that made Malefleur turn on her, spy on her, lay out a trap that would eventually destroy her. They’d had a nice enough time at emperor Zeno’s court, having a drink now and then when they weren’t in the mood for work.

Perhaps it’s her. Perhaps not. It’s hard to know if you have people on your side in Hell. Most likely, you don’t.

“Ha!” Eric exclaims after an hour of searching. “Look at this one. Name’s Belcimon. They’re a dog demon, part of the Earth Observation team. Oooh, there’s a lot attached to their name.”

“What do you have?”

“Five missed reports in a row,” Eric lists. “No material submitted to the archives in a year and a half. They were called back two months ago, but they never responded.”

“So they’ve gone missing.”

Eric bites his lip and shrugs slightly. His hands tap against the desk, and it’s only too clear that he knows more. Crowley glances at him over the top of her glasses, gives him a meaningful look.

“Too bad we can’t confirm that, eh?” she says, prompting a reaction.

It follows immediately, in the form of a raised eyebrow and a swift twitch of Eric’s fingers. He seems to be debating himself silently, weighing risk and gain. It seems that his curiosity wins in the end.

He reaches around the desk and, after another moment’s hesitation, he pulls forth a book from a hidden drawer. It’s labelled _Lost Agents_. “They’re in here too,” he whispers. “It seems like contact has been lost completely, no-one knows how to reach them. Oh boy, do I feel reckless looking at this.”

“Belcimon, you say? I think I’ve run into them before.”

Eric snaps his fingers and summons a file. He hands it over to Crowley, who immediately flips through the pages. The different stages of Belcimon’s career are listed there, where they’d been deployed to and what they’d been doing there. The latest bullet point has them stationed in Lisbon, testing out a new set of infernal equipment, meant to produce lifelike images of beings and their aura.

And suddenly, Crowley _remembers_ Lisbon.

* * *

_Lisbon, 1755._

_The air is crisp and cold on this late October evening, and a certain tension lies in the air. Crowley knows that something is going to happen, but he can’t pinpoint it yet. He can, however, see the unease that holds Aziraphale tightly in its grip, the way it makes his gaze shift every other moment._

_They’re sitting at a table just outside a restaurant, and darkness is steadily falling. Oyster shells deck their plates. They should be happy here, shouldn’t they?_

_“Crowley,” Aziraphale suddenly says. “Will you still be here tomorrow?”_

_“Of course. Why are you asking?”_

_“It’s the first of November. Have_ – _have they told you what will happen, then?”_

 _His voice is frail, and the insecurity seems about to spill over. Crowley shakes his head._ _He knows that something bad must be about to happen. After centuries of watching worries and concerns unfold on the angel’s face, it’s only too easy to read him, even when he tries to stay level-headed. Crowley’s too well-acquainted with Aziraphale by now not to know._

_“They didn’t. What’s the deal?”_

_“I can’t tell you about it, Crowley,” Aziraphale says and he lowers his voice. Still, Crowley can hear the pain that lies behind the words. “You’re the opposition.”_

_“Are you going to help them, once it happens?” Crowley asks, gesturing towards the humans enjoying the onset of a calm night._

_Aziraphale shakes his head. It seems so incredibly heavy, even in the half dark on the other side of the table. “They told me it’s necessary, Crowley. I can’t_ – _I just can’t_ – _oh my.”_

_The angel chokes on his words and that makes Crowley’s heart twist in pain, too. He thinks of the Arrangement, knowing that it’s meant to be a different sort of comfort, but he doesn’t mind._

_“I can do it, if you can’t,” Crowley whispers._

_“Why do they have to die, Crowley? Is it necessary for them to suffer in order to find virtue and faith?”_

_It’s a question as old as time, and Crowley has seen the way it affects Aziraphale, over and over again. He can see the tears in the corners of his eyes now, too. It’s a discussion they’ve never truly allowed themselves to have, though. Perhaps they’re both scared of the answers they might face._

_So Crowley takes his hand, an impulsive decision._

_“Don’t think about it. Leave and I’ll do the job for you.”_

_It’s an offer, unlike the ones they usually exchange. There’s no quid pro quo, no temptation and blessing exchanged, but Aziraphale’s hand is so soft in his. He wishes moments like this could last, that they don’t have to be broken apart by the waves of Heaven and Hell washing over them._

_Aziraphale smiles, faintly. He squeezes Crowley’s hand in turn._

_“Crowley, you’re too… too kind to me. Now, I know you don’t like being called that, but it’s true. It’s horrendous work.”_

_Crowley knows that. He also knows that it won’t matter in the end, which of them does it. People will die, and Crowley will have to watch the survivors suffer. Standing by is the worst assignment they can get, but he can deal with it better than Aziraphale, can try to shake off the guilt. He’s even been told that demons cannot feel guilty. Nonsense._

_“I don’t mind it. I’m a demon, ‘s what I do.”_

_Aziraphale shakes his head, sighs. “There will be an earthquake. I’m supposed to keep the people around, stop them from fleeing so they can see death and pain and_ – _and desperation. It will make them reconsider, bring them back onto the right path.”_

_“All I’d have to do is tell them things. Spread the word, make them believe it’s a penalty from above. I can do that much better than you.”_

_“You might,” Aziraphale concedes, although he doesn’t look happy about it. He seems upset by the choice he’s about to make, but he realises that it’s better for his own mental state and that Crowley won’t rest easily either if he declines. “Oh Crowley, do you really_ – _”_

_“Yes. Just take the offer.”_

_“Let me do something for you, too. Grant me that at least,” the angel pleads._

_“Take care of yourself. That’s enough this time.”_

_He doesn’t want to be tender. He doesn’t want to let go, either. Perhaps, Heaven is right and the price of love truly is pain._

* * *

“Eric, can you give me a moment? I need to take some notes.”

She shakes her head, tries to pull herself out of this stupor of remembrance. Eric’s expression is a little doubtful, but he nods nonetheless. With a couple of quick movements, he clears the desk and lets the traces of their investigation vanish.

“I’ll stand guard. Ten minutes, alright?”

Crowley nods and Eric turns to leave. As soon as he’s out of sight, she makes a run for the reports that _have_ been handed in. If they truly have been spotted, she has to remove and destroy the evidence incriminating herself. There’s a number of files under Belcimon’s name and she quickly sifts through them. Documents and visual reproductions are mixed in there, sorted by time and place. It’s far too easy to fix the point where Belcimon must have first noticed them – it must have been in Lisbon, where they realised that a demon and an angel were collaborating. Not just that, when they saw tenderness between them.

And then Crowley finds the right file. It’s labelled Lisbon, 1755. Her hands tremble when she flips it open–

To find it empty. The file before that is empty, too. There are a couple more that seem to be missing individual sheets. Crowley starts cursing under her breath. This is _not_ a good sign.

She rushes to the other side of the chamber, finds the file with her own name on it. It’s lighter than it was last time. Recent reports are missing, and they all correspond with times and places where she met up with Aziraphale. Even more concerning, older reports have disappeared, too. Have they really been obvious? Has something slipped into her writing? No. They’re reports from the very beginning of the Earth. Crowley assumes that it must be the ones that reference Aziraphale directly, before she wisely stopped mentioning him.

Belcimon has taken them all. They must have seen them that day in Lisbon, must have resolved to bring them down, must have taken the files to build their case on. There’s nothing left for Crowley to save or destroy.

She can hear Eric’s voice from the door, whispering for her to hurry up. Crowley puts on a calm façade before returning to him.

“Just as I thought,” she says. “They have covered up their traces by stealing from the archives.”

Eric’s face is bright with excitement at the thought of uncovering something big. “When? They haven’t been seen here in a while. Or was it premeditated?”

“Look Eric, I don’t know it yet, but if word of it doesn’t get out, I can track them down and get them punished. I’ll mention your part in it, alright?”

“Yeah. I’ll send you a note in case they show up here. It’s _so_ exciting. I’ve always wanted to see what they do to a traitor.”

Those words send a shiver down Crowley’s spine, even though she knows he isn’t talking about her.

* * *

When Crowley returns to the parlour a few hours after Aziraphale’s visit to the Salzingers, she’s full of energy and excitement. It’s a different kind than in the morning, though, something more hopeful and decisive. A wicked smile plays around her lips when she drops onto the chaise longue and pulls a notebook and pencil from her pockets. It makes Aziraphale’s heart flutter happily, to see her like her usual self, with her witty insouciance back in place. And yet, he can’t help feeling like this is a fragile equilibrium between them, something he needs and wants to mend.

But then, Crowley’s words throw him off track.

“Guess what, angel. I found them.”

Aziraphale’s heart skips a beat and restarts, far more quickly than it’s supposed to. Perhaps he should give his corporation a stern talking to. The idea that all this could be over is both exhilarating and disconcerting.

“So – who is it? Do we know them?” he asks, careful not to show his immense eagerness.

Crowley shakes her head and flips through the pages. “Belcimon, appears to look somewhat canine? Apparently, they’ve been missing in action for a while now.”

That concerns Aziraphale, but he tries to swallow down his worries. If Crowley seems unconcerned, it shouldn’t bother him either, right? Maybe it would be better to ignore this gut feeling.

He clears his throat. “How long have they been missing?”

“Since the Earthquake. The one in Lisbon. They were sent to test some new observation strategy for the files. I suppose that they noticed us there and saw us act out the Arrangement.”

“That’s… rather terrifying. But I gather they haven’t told anyone, have they? Otherwise we would have… _heard_ about it,” Aziraphale says.

It’s a fear he’s had to deal with for seven centuries now, that someone might find out about the connection between him and Crowley. It didn’t matter whatever that was in particular, it never had, but on that night back in the eleventh century, he had finally had a word to attach his worries to: Arrangement. For someone to find concrete evidence of this… it’s his worst nightmare come true.

And yet.

Nothing has happened so far. Well, not _nothing_. They’ve been called here, into a trap laid out just for them, and the idyllic scenery of the village has been poisoned in Belcimon’s wicked game. No lightning has come down to strike Aziraphale, though, and no chasm has opened to suck Crowley down in front of a jury that would condemn her without mercy. There’s hope in that, isn’t there?

Crowley frowns. “Yeah, we would. They must be gathering more information, trying to catch us red-handed before starting trouble. Beelzebub really isn’t a fan of demons causing _them_ trouble.”

“Catching us red-handed, you say? I’d rather assume they’re currently executing that phase of the plan.” Aziraphale knows he must be pale, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Perhaps they’re running out of hope. “What can we do to stop them?”

That draws a dry laugh out of Crowley. “Perhaps we _should_ ask that priest of yours. Still don’t like the plan, but it might be the quickest way to go about it, and I don’t know how much time we have to waste.”

“I could talk to him tomorrow. He’s certainly susceptible to the _idea_ of a demon being responsible for what happened in the village, but I would have to convince him that it is, in fact, true.”

For a moment, silence falls between them as they both realise the gravity of the situation. It’s all becoming more palpable by the minute, both the danger and the light at the end of the tunnel. Aziraphale can hardly believe that they’re going down that route, but Crowley might be right. It’s likely enough that they won’t have the time to sway Belcimon, even if they capture them without destruction.

They’re running out of time, hour by hour. After millennia on this Earth, Aziraphale can’t quite grasp the concept that it might be over soon if they fail. Of course he knows that, in the grand scheme, they’re working towards Armageddon, the end of _all_ days, but somehow their own end seems almost laughably impossible. It’s absurd how late he noticed the proverbial noose tightening around them. There are so many things that he still wants to do, still wants to fix.

One look at Crowley and he can count regrets aplenty, words he wants to take back and other words he wants to say, quiet and soft, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to rush through them, say them the wrong way simply because he’s scared. Aziraphale yearns for a chance he’ll never get, not unless they make it out of this alive. If – no, when – they do, he will try to make amends. He owes Crowley an apology for what happened the night before and they should set to rights the way they parted today, prevent such a thing from happening again. Maybe he’ll be forgiven, he thinks.

“Thank you, dear. You’ve done so much today,” he says, hoping it’s enough for now.

“Hey. Aziraphale – I know we can do this.”

He can see the trust in Crowley’s eyes, the confidence that Aziraphale will get them one step closer to fixing this. It gives him strength, and the necessary calm to go through with it.

“I hope so too, my dear,” he says, a small, joyless smile on his lips. “Otherwise, we might be doomed.”

**Footnotes.**

[28] Crowley has learnt plays rather well over the past centuries, knows their words, their workings and their theories. Tragedies in particular, but that might have more than one reason behind it. Experience doesn’t make Crowley like them more.

[29] Quite literally. Crowley could still do this in the 24th century if the need resurfaces.

[30] One direction is, as the reader can imagine, an emotionally tainted one. Another, only slightly more terrifying one, considers the possibility of a disaster happening, of demons, of Heaven, of an uncontrollable human intervention.

[31] Origin possibly miraculous.

[32] A few days later, Aziraphale will come to another realisation he is missing now: Is that what all women feel like when they’re expected to stay at home, rear the children and do the chores? So terribly _immobile_?

[33] Not that Crowley minds wide skirts per say. They have great space for pockets, feel terrifically fancy and dramatic. They also tend to pick up dirt, though, even if this century’s skirts are cut a little shorter.

[34] The _mailroom thing_ refers to an incident in which Crowley was visiting Hell due to a complaint that had wrongfully been filed against him in administration. Eric had told him the latest piece of gossip, about the intern who had messed up commendations and reprimands, and Crowley had in turn recommended Eric as replacement to the higher ups. Of course, this was _not_ a favour, but merely a selfish act. It would prove a rather useless act outside of this story, since Eric would later be demoted to running errands because he made a similar mistake.

[35] One benefit to making most of them up entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life kept interfering with updating this fic, but I finally managed to get this chapter written and edited. I hope that the next chapter can go up in two weeks, but as you might have noticed, the updates keep ending up _much_ longer than the earlier ones. Still, some of last chapter's tension should be resolved now, so we can have a little more fluff in the next one, as a treat.
> 
> Thank you, readers, for all the lovely comments on the earlier chapters. They really keep me going.


	8. Silhouette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale consults the priest once more, Crowley finds worrying evidence, and some words are finally spoken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, heavily indebted to my marvellous beta and friend, Thyra279.
> 
> Content warning: Discussions of death and loss.

_I love those who yearn for the impossible._ _  
(J. W. Goethe, Faust)_

_September 27, 1771._

Somehow, good things never come in threes. Bad things do, and this day is about to prove it; Aziraphale is certain of it.

When he enters the parlour for breakfast – a tradition he has started to observe ever since living with a proper servant – he notices that no cups or plates are laid out for them and that immediately strikes him as concerning. How unusual for Luise not to take care of this. Aziraphale decides to look for her and gently remind her that it’s past eight o’clock, and while he does so, he can check up on the girl and see if she’s doing alright.

The first place he’d suspect her is the kitchen – perhaps she’s just running late. The door is ajar but Aziraphale stalls for a moment when a soft noise startles him. It’s low and piercing at the same time, a stifled sob most likely. He hesitates, not quite sure what to do. Humans can be very unpredictable, and Aziraphale has learnt over time that what comforts one human might not comfort another – quite the opposite, it might even upset them. On the other hand, there might be something he can do to help her, to soothe whatever is troubling her.

With a gentle knock he opens the door. Luise is sitting on a stool by the fireplace, but she immediately jumps to her feet when she hears the creak of the hinges, wiping the backs of her hands across her eyes. She tries to force a smile onto her face, but even if it weren’t for the redness of her eyes and the puffiness of her cheeks, the uneasy way she’s wringing her hands would give her away.

“Oh, the breakfast,” she says, waving one hand nervously after a few seconds of awkward silence. She quickly stills its trembling by reaching for a tablecloth. “I am so sorry, I just got – a little distracted.”

Her voice sounds choked and Aziraphale is certain that she won’t be able to push her distress aside for much longer. If he wants to help her, he has to do it now, or she might well break down into tears again[36].

“Luise, is there anything I can help you with? You seem rather… upset.”

Luise forces herself to smile, but then she breaks down. Her shoulder slump, she drops the tablecloth and falls back onto the stool in one fluid motion, as though the dam which kept her emotions in check has suddenly broken and now she’s carried by the water, pushed and pulled down the stream.

“I am so sorry, Herr Fell, I can’t help it. I – my mother passed last night. But I can work, I assure –”

“You most certainly cannot!” Aziraphale insists, but it only makes Luise shrink even more and tears appear on her blotched cheeks. That’s not what he wanted at all – the poor girl. “Oh, I’m sorry my dear, that wasn’t supposed to sound so harsh. I will not force you to work when you have someone dear to grieve for.”

Luise smiles weakly, a little gesture of gratefulness, and allows herself to let her posture fall to pieces. Her shoulders shake with gentle tears for a few moments, but when she speaks, her voice is far firmer than it was before.

“I thought she was doing better. After you visited her, she seemed to be in high spirits, I even hoped that she might recover.” She shakes her head, wipes at her eyes again. “And then, after the storm, when I returned home... she said that someone had visited her, and she seemed confused and uneasy – and – and suddenly, the fever returned and it – it climbed far too high – and. And well. She passed last night.”

Aziraphale looks at her with soft concern. “My condolences. If there’s anything we can do for you, dear…”

“I don’t know where to go,” Luise sighs. “I can’t afford living on my own, and I can’t – I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“I am certain that I can raise your wages if your financial situation is a concern. And while I can’t guarantee you that I will remain here for a long time, you will have employment here until I leave,” Aziraphale says and he means it. He can’t stand the idea of being personally responsible for a human’s distress, even less so when he finds himself genuinely fond of said human.

“Thank you,” she says, finally raising her hung head to look at him. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Oh, hush, it’s really the least I can do. I’ve seen loss a great many times, and I understand that grief is a great weight on anyone’s shoulders. And while it might seem impossible now, there’s a chance that you will both be better. Your mother’s soul has her peace now, and that is something that no-one can take away from her, not anymore.”

Aziraphale feels slightly bad telling her that. There _is_ a chance that, at some future point in time, her soul will truly rest undisturbed forever, but before that can happen, another war will have to be fought. It’s not strictly a lie and yet… As long as it makes her feel better, it should be allowed, shouldn’t it?

“I suppose it _is_ better in the end,” Luise says softly. “Of course, I wouldn’t have wanted for her to suffer, and yet – I feel so terribly selfish for wanting just a little bit more.”

“Most want more than they can get, Luise. That’s part of the nature of being human.”

“And what’s the other part, then?” she asks and a weak, teasing smile plays around the corners of her mouth.

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps that everything has its time. Everything comes and goes at some point; joys, sorrows, sickness, health. Or at least that’s what I like to think. It would be a bleak world if it didn’t have a rhythm of its own.”

He believes that, truly, he does. That’s what the ineffable plan is all about, right? That there’s some pattern behind everything that happens, something that will eventually click into place and make sense. _And the eyes of the blind shall see out of obscurity, and out of darkness **[37]**_ , and so on.

“A rhythm. That sounds nice – when it gets thrown off, it will return to its former melody.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale says, as softly as he can. “And the variations are what makes it _yours_.”

He’s learnt a bit about Luise in the past few months, and he knows that talking about music and other types of art always makes her a little happier. It’s her interest, although she could never really afford to get taught properly. And even now, it makes her smile a little.

“Thank you.” She nods firmly and wipes at her cheeks, making up her mind. “If you don’t mind it, I will help Madame, relay her the… the bad news, and take the day off.”

“Of course. Rest well.”

He says those words with conviction, and usually that’s enough to let them become true. He can only hope that it works this time too, that it will grant her the blessing of a much-needed rest without an _actual_ blessing behind it.

She gives him a weak smile and gathers the kitchen tools she won’t use now, wipes off the counter and straightens her pinafore. Before she leaves for Crowley’s chamber, Luise turns towards Aziraphale once more.

“Don’t worry about me, sir. Oh, and there’s fresh bread in the pantry if you want it.”

* * *

Aziraphale speaks with Crowley once more before he heads for the priest. They are still in agreement to consult him, to tell Meyer the true extent of Belcimon’s influence on the village and see what the human can do. If he believes Aziraphale and is willing to help, this might bring them a tremendous advantage. What exactly changed Crowley’s mind, Aziraphale doesn’t know, but he suspects that it must have to do with what she saw in Hell, with the gaps in records and the gossip of colleagues. An odd thought, to consider who is truly supposed to be Crowley’s colleague.

It’s cool today, and Aziraphale can feel the autumn air seeping in, chilling him to the bone. He tightens the cravat around his neck and pulls the coat sleeves a little further down, but it’s no use. The cold is everywhere.

The stubs of felled trees rise against the grey sky like teeth digging themselves into whatever they can find; the parsonage a pale, lifeless backdrop. No birds sing, no sun shines. The door knocker is icy against Aziraphale’s palm and he feels slightly unwelcome even before the door opens.

“What do you want?” the parson’s wife asks, her voice no warmer than the metal. “Wilhelm is out to see the boy – Werther.”

“Has he been gone for long?”

“An hour or two.” She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms when Aziraphale raises a questioning eyebrow. “Can’t know when he’ll return, now can I?”

Aziraphale smiles, kindly. “Of course not. But you can allow me to wait for him in his study, since I have important business to discuss with him.”

With a displeased mumble, she lets him enter and points him down the dim corridor. Aziraphale takes his time, looks at the small paintings that are hung on the wood-panelled walls. They’re lovely bucolic scenes, sheep like clouds dotted across meadows while shepherds and their girls watch. Strangely out of touch with how everything else feels, isn’t it?

After a couple of minutes, he takes a seat in the chair opposite Meyer’s desk and closes his eyes, waiting for time to pass. He lets the key events of the past days pass through his mind, remembers them to take another good look at them. His last conversation with Meyer suddenly seems much more fruitful, the investigation of his neighbours on the other hand is a clear waste of time. The more he thinks, the more unbidden memories come to the surface. Memories of laces under his palms, of cold and distanced words, of a gaze open and… longing, almost. The unexpected softness in the deep lines of Crowley’s face, droplets of rain clinging to her skin. He wants to paint a picture, but instead he shakes his head, tries to let the reveries vanish like the mist-spun images they are.

Almost an hour later, he can hear voices in the corridor and after a short argument, Meyer throws the door to his study open. He sighs heavily before he drops a bag by the bookshelves. His grey face is lined with exhaustion and Aziraphale feels the worry radiating off him.

“I’m sorry you had to wait for me, Herr Fell. Can I offer you a glass of wine?” he says, and seeing Aziraphale nod, he pulls forth two glasses and a decanter. “It has been quite a day. Did you know that Werther has left the village? Well, neither did I, but Albert told me a few rather concerning things about his state of mind, so I figured I might check on him. I had to ask quite a number of people until I learnt that he left for good, to take a position at some official’s place.”

“I do hope he will be doing better there,” Aziraphale says, and it’s a genuine wish. “This village didn’t make him very happy, I’m afraid. A slighted heart can turn the best of people sour.”

“It truly can. Certainly he doesn’t mean to live a sinful life, but it will be easier for him with the object of his desire out of his reach.”

“Quite so.”

Meyer hands him a glass and fixes the position of his pince-nez. He takes a sip and finally reclines in his chair; it seems like some of his stress is abating. This might turn into the opening Aziraphale needs.

“I suspect it might be easier to stay virtuous in a different town,” he continues. “Considering the… unfortunate circumstances that have befallen this village.”

“What do you mean?” Meyer asks, immediately perking up with sharp suspicion.

Aziraphale lets silence fall between them for a few moments and the realisation seems to dawn on the parson’s face. His eyes widen. The colour fades from his cheeks. Aziraphale can feel the tumult in his soul spill over into the space between them, and it makes something in the back of his neck prickle with discomfort.

“We _have_ talked about this before, Meyer. I know that this is not an easy topic, but you noticed it too.”

“As I said, Fell, I’m a rational man.” He pauses for a moment, folds his arms in front of his chest. “I rather fear it might have been a transgression on my part to speak; I shouldn’t talk about metaphysics when I know little.”

Aziraphale nods, lets his mouth turn into a grave, thin line. “What would you say if I told you that I agree with your stance, fully? And not just out of conviction, but out of knowledge?”

“Knowledge?” Meyer’s expression darkens even more, and his grey eyes turn piercingly sharp. “Forgive me the question, but _how exactly_ would you have knowledge of demons and spirits?”

“I have studied them for… let us say, a very long time.”

“I have studied books too, and they’re full of contradictions. There are few written words which we can trust with unlimited faith. People have come to consult me over decades as a parson, so I have done the necessary research to advise them, but I have never found a treatise truly convincing. They provide solid theories and interesting ideas, but where’s the proof that those man-written books are on the money?”

“You sound far more doubtful than you did a few days ago.”

“Then give me a reason not to doubt.”

“I have… experience with demons.” Meyer’s eyes widen and Aziraphale hurries to calm him. “It’s more of a… professional interest, nothing to be worried about. My line of work demands that I know my way around them, and I know a fair amount, but I need your help in this particular case.”

“Just to make sure I understood you correctly: You are telling me that demons are, in fact, what we think them to be, and one of the creatures inhabits the village at this current moment,” the priest says and his gaze flitters nervously between Aziraphale and his bookshelves.

“Yes! One, just one, not a second demon in sight.”

“And you are some sort of – of exorcist? Demonologist? Master of… dark arts?”

“Oh no, most certainly not. One could say I’m supposed to-” Aziraphale gestures with open arms and a smile, “keep a balance, of some sorts. I prevent demons from spreading evil and influence people towards virtue instead.”

“Of course. Right.” Meyer swallows hard and reaches for his glass, downing his remaining wine in one go, before he lets out a strained laugh. “Ha. Almost like an angel.”

“Indeed.”

He gives Meyer some time to let the knowledge sink in and draw his own conclusions, and he can almost see the thoughts racing through the parson’s mind. Suddenly, though, Meyer seems to snap from his considerations and he nods, squaring his shoulders as he does so.

“Then it is my duty as a priest to help you.”

Aziraphale gives him a smile bright enough to cast some of Meyer’s doubts away. “Thank you. You mentioned, when we last spoke, that you know how to exorcise a demon?”

“Yes. In theory, that is. I’ve never actually performed an exorcism.”

“Well – my – my colleague and I believe that exorcism is not an option in our current situation. So I do wonder – could you perform a summoning?”

Meyer rises, still a little hesitant, and crosses the room. He takes a quick look at his bookshelves and the titles there before pulling out a thick leather-bound volume with embossed letters on its back. Aziraphale can’t read them from his place in the chair, but he assumes that it’s a manual on demonology.

“I need to review the exact process, but I think I could do it, yes. The necessary symbols are all amassed in this book, and I could purchase everything we need. That is, apart from the name of the creature.”

“I can supply as much. You would be doing all of us a great favour if you could devote some of your time to research and contact me when you consider yourself able to perform the ritual, yes?”

“Of course, Herr Fell,” Meyer says, a slightly clouded look on his face. Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed that he was influencing the priest, and he feels a slight pang of regret at that.

It won’t do to ponder the morality of this influence, though, so Aziraphale resolves to leave and make preparations of his own. If his calculations aren’t too far off, then Meyer should reach out to him by tomorrow or the day after that, and Aziraphale has to discuss the further procedures with Crowley, ensure that they’re on the same page. He’d hate to know that Crowley doesn’t agree with the plan as it is slowly working out. If they want to best Belcimon, they’ll have to make concessions and mend what has been broken between them.

“Jolly good. Thank you, Meyer,” Aziraphale says as he gets up to leave.

He straightens the cuffs of his sleeves and smiles politely. Before he goes, he reaches into his pocket and pulls forth a calling card, on which his mortal pseudonym and address are printed in fine, elegant letters. Carefully, he places it on top of the handbook.

Meyer looks up suddenly and furrows his brows at Aziraphale. “Your colleague, you said? Do you mean your wife?”

“My sister-in-law,” Aziraphale corrects immediately. Best not to blow their cover.

“There’s something – and forgive me for saying so – rather odd about her. I should have known, shouldn’t I?”

The priest’s expression is serious, and while he may be on the edge of noticing something more in this particular moment, Aziraphale can tell that the thought will be gone in a couple of minutes, leaving nothing behind but a strange feeling. It’s better that way, isn’t it? Not to lead him to the precipice of a moral dilemma Aziraphale has to fight every damn day.

“That’s quite alright, dear Meyer. Few people notice.”

* * *

Meanwhile, on the slippery rocks of the nearby ravine, a demon is looking for clues and traces the storm hasn’t washed away.

Crowley can still feel a certain thrumming in the atmosphere of the place, a sort of dissonance in the melody that makes up the landscape’s background noise. It must be Belcimon’s metaphysical footprint, which in turn means that they must have stayed here for a while. And it makes sense. The creek is secluded enough that no-one would stumble upon them, but close enough to reach the village quickly. Well, one unlucky soul might have run into them, come to think of it – that would make the postman’s lethal accident fit into the bigger picture all too well.

It’s hard to trace the imprints of demonic aura after some time has passed. Crowley supposes that they must have taken up a new residence closer to her and Aziraphale when she arrived in the village. If it were Crowley in their position, she would have taken up residence in the postman’s house… which would, in turn, explain why Belcimon appeared to Luise and Lotte as a messenger.

She climbs down the path to the bottom of the ravine, and this time, she manages to keep her footing. There are no traces in the mud, no shrubs indented in a way to show that someone has passed here recently. For Hell’s sake, Belcimon has done their homework all too well.

Crowley follows the brook, which happily splashes against the gravelly ground. There’s a strange formation in the rock a few yards ahead of her, and Crowley supposes that it must be a cave – an ideal place for a demon to hide out, eh? So she digs her fingers into the cracks between the stones and climbs up.

Perhaps she was wrong in her assumption that Belcimon has left before the storm, she thinks when she sees the scene in front of her. There are a couple of wooden boxes, half-abandoned it would seem. A few papers are scattered on the ground, and Crowley notices a couple of other objects – scraps of fabric, bones, unopened letters. Right, that would explain what happened to the postman.

She walks over to the closest box and examines the documents laying around it. The paper is somewhat slimy and feels strangely worn. Crowley immediately recognises it as a document from Hell, even before she sees the standard form they use to fill out their reports. It’s just like she thought – she’s holding her own report in her hands.

_Report type: Demonic activities, Heavenly interference_ _  
Pertaining to: Demon Crowley, Earthly agent  
Service number: 127894.1601.9  
Encountered agent of opposition in London cultural scene. A.o.O.’s plans of turning theatre into a tool of virtuous righteousness have been foiled. Spread desperation, scepticism towards institutions, general distrust and weariness of life via abovementioned tool. Success immediate. Notable increase in attendants of vice-riddled theatre performances._

Crowley remembers that all too well; she’d needed a senseless report to cover up that she hadn’t handed in the one about the Edinburgh-thing[38]. She picks up another scrap from the ground. Yet another report of hers, mentioning Aziraphale too. The one after that is different, and far more recent. In the header, Belcimon’s name and service number seem like a warning sign, but Crowley reads on nonetheless.

_Tested new devices for infernal observation purposes. Great success. Have managed to produce lifelike images of humans and their aura. Quality of images still somewhat insufficient_ – _takes too long to develop pictures. Still, useful tool for observation. Will test it on demonic co-worker soon to ensure functionality. To be continued._

The continuation never followed, it seems, since there's no further notes on the report. Crowley snorts. She can imagine quite well why nothing followed – Belcimon clearly ran into Aziraphale and her at that point and considered it better _not_ to report. They’ve been very lucky indeed.

She swiftly collects the other sheets sticking to the ground. There are notes on the village, torn apart and barely legible anymore. That won’t help them trace Belcimon’s movements – the other demon plays their game all too well. And there must have been notes on Aziraphale and Crowley, too, obviously, but only small snippets of paper have been left behind.

Crowley knows that she must be diligent now, so she folds her own reports neatly and slips them into her pockets. They will be restored to Hell’s archives soon enough, to clear Crowley’s name of potential suspicion. Belcimon’s reports, however – they might be more incriminating than useful, so she sets fire to them with a flick of her hand.

There’s another box that she hasn’t investigated yet, so she tears off the lid and scans the contents. A shiver runs down her spine when she recognises a pocket watch among them, silver and engraved with a finely-lettered name – _A. Z. Fell_. It had been a gift, a few decades ago. Aziraphale had given it to her when she’d lost her own watch fulfilling her part of the Arrangement. He’d called it a compensation, of sorts. The only way Belcimon could have obtained it would mean that they’d sifted through Crowley’s belongings at some point in the recent past. Perhaps they’d followed her carriage, waiting until the coachman needed a break at a local tavern to strike.

“Shit. Shit. _Shit_ ,” she hisses. She can only hope that this is the only thing Belcimon took off her.

The rest of the objects seem to be fabric – clothing most likely, nothing of interest. But nestled in amongst sheer black and dull grey is a thick piece of – not paper exactly, but not wood either. No material known to humanity, it would seem. Crowley flips the page and she draws in a sharp breath.

It’s an accurate reproduction of Aziraphale and Crowley, in black and white instead of lifelike colours, except for small gradients around them – this must be their auras, if Belcimon’s report is true. It could be that; the ring around Crowley is dark, with brighter starstuff-like spots across it and yet, there’s room for what must have been colour, soft and indulgent and… _happy_. Aziraphale seems to be surrounded by a similar hue, but much brighter, pure almost. Crowley doesn’t know much about auras, but she assumes that this clearly distinguishes them as angel and demon to a trained eye.

She tears her gaze away from the blotches of colour and takes in the rest of the picture. Both of them are dressed in court suits, embellished with silver and gold, buttons and other decorations. They are wearing medals and sashes, as befits a court official. Crowley has rarely seen Aziraphale look so modern, but then again, it was a borrowed suit if she remembers correctly. In the background of the picture, Frankfurt cathedral rises against the sky.

Of course she remembers the occasion – the coronation of emperor Joseph II. It had been quite the spectacle, so they’d both taken a couple of days off to see what the fuss was about. It had been worth it, not just for the entertainment of wandering among the crowds. Something about it had felt elevated, ceremonial, human to the brim[39]. And then there had been the aftermath, the celebrations among the nobility, the long drunken walk through the nightly city that had lasted until dawn. That must have been the moment the picture was taken, at sunrise in front of the cathedral.

And even now, Crowley can see how disgustingly besotted they were with each other in that moment. She remembers the emotion all too well[40].

Crowley should burn the picture, but she sees the way they’re smiling and decides to keep it. Not for emotional reasons, she’s a demon, she doesn’t get sentimental, but as proof. Proof of her connection to the angel, in case they should ever need it. Yes, that’s a good reason – evil reason, whatever. So Crowley slips it into her pockets, next to the reports, and takes a final look at the cave. She’s seen everything.

With pockets full of guilt-weighed responsibility, she starts the climb up the ravine. Her thoughts are racing. If Aziraphale’s conversation with the priest was fruitful, they could get to work as soon as tomorrow morning – summon Belcimon, question them while they’re being held by the human’s powers, destroy them. That’s going to be the hardest part. Aziraphale will have to do it, or Meyer, if he can be trusted with that.

As Crowley rushes back into the village, the sky starts to change colour. It’s not supposed to turn dark that early, now is it? There’s no way for Belcimon to know that they’re closing in on them at this precise moment, though. Alright, they may have noticed Crowley burning the reports, but the source of this darkness seems to be on the other side of the village, somewhere by the green. Concerning. Perhaps it’s an unrelated bout of evil energy? One more step on the path to spreading vices and dissent – or maybe a plot to get Aziraphale and Crowley there – to capture them working together? That must be what Belcimon is looking for, tangible proof that this is not… some sort of game, or a liaison, but a highly effective and dangerous forbidden pact. And one way to set them into action is to harm the humans around them.

The closer she gets to the village, the stronger the pull of evil becomes. Crowley’s eyes have a hard time adjusting to the sudden darkness that settles lower and lower over the village, floating down until it almost reaches the top of the doorframes surrounding her. It seems almost tangible, but when she raises her hand above her head, there’s no fog, no webs, no thick clouds that stop its movement.

A shiver runs down her spine. She can feel the anxiety of the humans spiking, even as she passes through the deserted village. The further she walks, the deeper the darkness settles, but when she comes closer to Aziraphale’s house, the colour is lighter. Whatever this is, it’s not centred there, but somewhere else. A peril weaving itself around the citizens, inescapable as night itself. She takes her glasses off and tries to make out traces of the children usually playing here, of the elderly women who work their crafts in the courtyards.

Instead, Crowley hears a scream.

* * *

By the time Crowley arrives – well, not _home_ , but in a fairly safe place, the sky has turned completely ink-black even there. Aziraphale is sitting by the parlour window, a displeased look on his face as he stares off into the pitch-dark middle distance. There’s something uneasy to the air in the room and Crowley understands it all too well. And yet, Aziraphale’s mouth turns up into a slight smile when he sees Crowley return.

“Have you found what you were looking for?” he asks, and he sounds quite confident that the answer is going to be positive.

Crowley nods sharply and pulls the edge of a report out of her pocket, just enough to show Aziraphale the gravity of her finds. He sighs and runs a hand across his face, as though he’d been expecting the exact thing he’s being shown now and it’s a relief in some way to have proof of his assumption.

“Good. Well, not _good_ , but you know what I mean. I’m afraid I was a bit less successful with the priest.”

The words make Crowley’s stomach plummet all the way down into Hell. If Aziraphale hasn’t succeeded, it will mean so much more additional work until they find Belcimon. Time is luxury for them, however, and Crowley isn’t inclined to waste it.

“I might have scared him, that’s all,” Aziraphale hurries to say when he sees Crowley’s face fall. “I’m a bit concerned for his, erm, sanity, but I don’t doubt that he will help us.”

“Could still help him out with a quick miracle once the job’s done, right?”

“I suppose so,” begins Aziraphale but he’s suddenly interrupted by a violent knocking on the door.

The two of them exchange a suspicious look. Who would come up to the angel’s house at this time of day, and in this weather? It’s too late for a morning visit and too late for an evening in company – not that they get company here very often, aside from Luise and the occasional visit of a greengrocer Aziraphale has befriended[41]. So Crowley follows him to the door, curious to find out what surprise awaits them now.

When Aziraphale opens the door, Salzinger’s grey silhouette is bright against the darkness. He radiates anger and distrust, but it seems that the angel doesn’t pick up on that, since he smiles and bows politely.

“I’m sorry you had to wait but I’m afraid that Luise–”

“How very dare you,” the elderly man spits and Aziraphale suddenly recognises the emotions playing out on his face. “You come into this village, _befriend_ us, make it seem like you have honest intentions, and then you harm us in every way imaginable.”

Aziraphale immediately closes off, becomes stern and detached. Crowley knows that this usually leads to bastardry, and she loves it. “Oh, I think I rather struggle to grasp your meaning. What harm have I done to you, exactly?”

“As if you don’t know that.”

“I thought we were friends, dear fellow, but perhaps I was mistaken. Does my presence suddenly offend you?”

At this, Crowley has to hold back a grin, but the man seems like this is _exactly_ what he’s been thinking for a while now. It’s an almost jarring difference compared to the eager politeness he’d shown the last time she’d seen him interacting with the angel.

“Quite frankly, it does. Ever since that – that _woman_ of yours came into the village, both of you have been causing nothing but trouble. Werther left after talking to you–”

“I thought the village agreed that it is the better option for all parties involved?”

Aziraphale looks genuinely confused for a moment, like the conversation is momentarily slipping out of his grip. And while Crowley has only met that miserable sod once, she’d be inclined to think that Aziraphale is rather correct in his assessment – there’s no good in a young man trailing after a woman who’s already taken with a whole village watching and laughing at him behind his back.

“That’s of no consequence here,” Salzinger snaps. “My daughter told me of your conversation yesterday. You scared her. You accused her of being dishonourable.”

“Oh no, that must be a misunderstanding, I never meant to imply that.”

“It doesn’t matter what you _want_ or _wanted_ to do. I don’t care about your intentions, I see the consequences of your actions. You gave Fräulein Luise hope and then, with no preamble, her mother dies. When I saw Father Meyer at the market today, he was grey and shivering, and he told me he was talking to you earlier. And you know what, Fell? That’s an awful lot of coincidences, isn’t it? The number of people who talk to you two and are harmed by it grows every day. You even managed to make the priest distraught.”

“Listen, Salzinger, this situation is very complex and I cannot begin to explain how much it grieves me that–”

“As I said, I don’t care what _grieves you_.” Salzinger laughs a joyless laugh. “It cannot continue this way. I demand that you leave – not only do I demand it, I speak for several of us. And there will be more of us tomorrow.”

A deep line is etched between Aziraphale’s brows by now, a mixture of concern, displeasure and, looking more closely at it, the onset of anger. Crowley’s starting to feel the prickle of excitement running across her skin, waiting to see what the angel will do next. It’s not for her to step in and say something, not unless Salzinger turns his rage on her, but then she’ll gladly rip him to pieces – verbally, that is. It would be for her own amusement, not to be needlessly cruel. Especially not in front of the angel.

“I can’t leave, Herr Salzinger. I have a duty here, and I will be gone once my duty is fulfilled.”

He sounds marvellously calm, and that sends Salzinger over the edge. Within a moment, the man turns red, but his voice is dreadfully low and venomous when he speaks.

“You must understand that I cannot accept that. I challenge you to a duel.”

Aziraphale seems genuinely taken aback, and he exchanges a worried look with Crowley. Of course, they’ve fought their fair share of duels in the past, but back then, it was different. During the Middle Ages, they’d been challenged to tourneys and fights one-on-one, as a matter of _ere_ – honour, they’d call it now – and glory. In this century, however, there seems to be something more serious to it – right, guns, they’re using guns these days. Chances are a lot higher that they’ll actually end up killing someone. No wonder that Aziraphale slowly turns pale and his gaze starts to shift uncomfortably.

“I can’t possibly accept that.”

“You can. You must. It’s not just a matter of honour.”

Crowley snorts. “What are you going to do? Sue him? Shoot him?”

Salzinger looks at him, cold and angry and _hateful_. And then something happens, something Crowley never expected to happen – and yet, in some way, it doesn’t surprise her at all.

“All right. I accept. If this is alright by you, I am available tomorrow afternoon,” says Aziraphale. He sounds oddly calm and collected.

“Tomorrow afternoon suits me well. You will have to pick a second, though. Will you have one by then? You don’t have many friends left here, and you’ll have even fewer of them by tomorrow.”

“I have one,” he says, casting a careful look in Crowley’s direction, obviously hoping that she won’t object. “If she doesn’t object, I will send Madame Crowley to negotiate the exact conditions tomorrow morning.”

Salzinger’s brows knit together, and it seems like the anger has evaporated within a second to make space for confusion in its place. “Well, I can make some time, but traditionally, it’s the second’s responsibility to negotiate.”

“Oh, precisely. That is why I’m sending Madame – if that’s all right with you, Crowley?”

“‘Course.”

“But – a _woman_? You can’t be serious!”

“I don’t believe there’s a law against it, now is there? Well, it would be an exaggeration to say that it was nice talking to you, but we will see each other tomorrow.” Aziraphale forces a smile. “Have a good night.”

Salzinger, still confused, nods curtly and turns on his heel to stalk off into the night. Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a look, and it seems like they both understand what the other thinks right now, which is probably along the lines of _what the Heaven just happened_? Is this just another one of Belcimon’s little ploys or has the man lost his mind? To challenge his friend for a duel, what an impulsive change in his behaviour.

“So,” Crowley begins when Aziraphale has shut the door behind them. “We’re doing this, eh?”

“At any rate, I’d be very grateful if you could make the way over to Salzinger’s house in the morning and negotiate. It would be better if we could settle this some other way. Frankly, I think it’s a rather ridiculous demand, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I wonder what got him… like that.”

Crowley gesticulates in hopes that explains everything. She lets herself fall onto the chaise-longue wearily, while Aziraphale sits down on the chair next to her, twisting his ring as he looks at her with a thoughtful expression.

“It doesn’t sit well with me, but I’m inclined to think that he is worried for his daughter. She was quite upset when I last spoke to her. Heaven knows what he thinks is happening.” He grimaces, realising the irony of his statement, and lets his hands drop into his lap. “Tea for you, dear?”

* * *

The light is dim, fuelled only by a handful of candle stumps scattered around the parlour. Neither of them has bothered to light the chandelier; the liminal atmosphere of the half-lit room fits their emotional toil all too well.

They’d agreed not to discuss the duel any further. Crowley didn’t really feel like it anyway, confident that the conflict could be resolved by morning. There are other matters she wants to discuss, has wanted to discuss them for a while, really. On a night like this, they can’t do anything to further their progress on the case anyway, caught up between a demonic plan and human hatred, wrapped up in preternatural darkness.

Aziraphale seems much the same way. He sits half-slumped in the blue armchair, staring wistfully into a glass of white wine, as though it could offer a solution to their problems. His round shoulders lack the tension of the past days, and Crowley knows this is a good sign. It’s a _missing the good days_ kind of sadness, not an _I’m scared for my life_ kind.

The angel leans over to refill Crowley’s glass, and clears his throat when their eyes meet for a moment.

“I think we can grant ourselves one last evening together.”

“Don’t be so ominous,” Crowley says, but it sounds rather fond.

“I’m not. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing, per se. If we fail tomorrow, yes, Belcimon might set the machinations of Hell to work, and everything will be over for us. If we destroy Belcimon, however, we still have to leave the village.” He laughs a dry laugh. “Or perhaps I’ll get shot, an unlikely but nevertheless plausible option three.”

“Is it weird if a demon tells you to keep your hopes up?”

Aziraphale smiles weakly, accepts the encouragement. He’s worried, of course, and that accounts for his pessimism. And while Crowley can’t guarantee him that they’ll make it out fine, she believes in it, and belief has power. She wants a future for them after this, a demand that calls out loud from her soul; to Heaven, to Hell, to things beyond. Perhaps, one day, they could have one, but that’s useless, wishful thinking. The future can’t hold for them what Crowley really wants, but she’ll accept the theatre visits, the dinners and accidental meetings at salons if that’s what she _can_ get.

After a few moments of pensive silence, Aziraphale rises from his chair and walks over to the commode, setting his empty glass there. He sifts through the drawers, looking for some thing or another.

“Crowley, dear, how do you feel about a little bit of entertainment?” he asks finally, a new lightness to his voice. “I don’t have any music to offer but I have cards, a set of backgammon, some artist’s tools… however do those things end up in my drawers?”

“You and artistry, never thought that’d be a thing.”

Aziraphale huffs, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he looks over his shoulder at Crowley. “Excuse me, but I think I’m a rather great friend of the arts.”

“As far as consumption is concerned, yes. Production, however? Won’t believe it ‘til I see it,” she says with a smirk.

“Then I think we should try our hand at it tonight. Dear Luise was kind enough to teach me a little of what’s fashionable this century, and I’m afraid you will have to stand in as my model tonight.”

“Oh, she’s an artist too? Multiply like rabbits here, do they?”

“She does the most wonderful watercolour drawings. Move over to the chair, will you?”

Crowley watches from the armchair while he rummages through the drawers again, eventually pulling out a slightly wonky glass and wood construction, a sheet of shiny paper, and wrapped charcoal. Humming softly to himself, he puts them down on the low coffee table in front of her, and starts on a walk around the parlour, picking up every other candle. He considers their placement for a moment and spreads them out somewhere behind Crowley’s back before returning to the table with the last one.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Silhouette paintings? Really?”

“Ah, I know that people consider them an expression of the model’s character, but I highly doubt your wiles will be visible on paper.”

“I wasn’t worrying about that, I was just thinking _how cliché_.”

“Hush, dear,” Aziraphale says and hands her the board. “And don’t you dare move, that would be most unfair if you wish to judge me based on this piece.”

“I wouldn’t tamper with your _artistic skill_ , now would I?”

“Of course, you wouldn’t temper with anything. Isn’t that just what demons do, though? 

Crowley just clicks her tongue at him and carefully sets the board on the armrest of her chair, trying to tie it in place with some makeshift bands connected to arm- and backrest. That should probably keep it in place. Her shadow falls against the oil paper, which is attached to the glass plate, providing the reference for the soon-to-be-portrait. She’s sat for silhouette paintings a couple of times before, at court in Vienna, where the empress’s ladies entertain a great interest in the arts. Even some of her numerous children paint with skill.

Aziraphale carries a chair over from his breakfast table and sits down on the other side of the art-contraption, charcoal in hand. His hands will be sullied black with it in no time, and they’ll be dirtied just like the bottom of his breeches, where some of the mud that had clung to Crowley’s dress after the storm had rubbed off. Perhaps he hasn’t noticed yet, but Crowley won’t be the one to point it out to him.

As the angel sets to work on the drawing, he falls into a focused silence, just like the many mortal artists they’ve watched perform their magic over millennia. She feels sorely tempted to turn her head, watch the concentrated lines play out over Aziraphale’s face, caught up in a strange dance as his attention shifts from point to point, but she must remain still.

“I wish it wasn’t like this, you know,” Aziraphale says all of a sudden. “How strange to have the sword of Damocles looming over one’s head.”

“Makes me wonder what it’s really like to be human. When the thread could snap anytime.”

She means it. Even after nearing six millennia on Earth, she’s always lacked a crucial key to understanding why humans were the way they were, and there’s no possible way for her to ever find out what mortality feels like. Perhaps this is the closest she’ll ever get to finding out.

“I thought something similar when Luise told me about her mother this morning. The poor girl, she shouldn’t have to lose so much at once. We’ll soon be gone too, and who knows what she will be left with.”

The regret is clear in Aziraphale’s voice. Crowley hasn’t considered that before, but she can imagine how strongly it might affect the girl.

“I’m sure she’ll make her way,” Crowley says, although it’s more of a reassurance directed towards Aziraphale than a true conviction. No-one knows where this ever-changing world will lead them.

“It’s brave, isn’t it? To live one’s life, to build something that’s one’s own when it can all be taken away within a moment. Admirable, I think.”

The coal makes a scratching sound as the wrapping rubs up against the oiled paper in the frame. It speaks more in the silence between them than words could, like a promise of calm serenity, of the low-stakes domestic life the house’s previous owners had most probably led here. Something simple.

And sometimes, something simple is what they both wish for. Crowley knows that it’s not just her who gets terribly exhausted by the work they do, who experiences the disillusionment of generation upon generation first-hand until it drains her so much that it affects her. There’s good times and there’s bad times, even when you’re a demon and you have no business looking for the good ones.

“Yes,” she says. “Resilient little creatures, those humans. I can see why they were Her favourite.”

“Truly,” Aziraphale replies, and when he remains silent after his assent, Crowley knows it’s because he’s concentrating on the outline of the silhouette and not because he doesn’t have anything more to add.

They must have had that conversation a hundred times, but it doesn’t matter. The world never ceases to fascinate them.

“I’m sorry that this has ended in such a mess,” says Aziraphale after a few minutes have passed. “I _know_ it’s not strictly my fault, but I could have been more careful.”

“It’s better we found out now than when it’s too late. I prefer to know when I’m a figurine in some twisted game.”

“I suppose it does allow you to change the rules of the game, however twisted it might be. And yet, I can’t help thinking that I made it worse.”

Something twists in Crowley’s stomach. So this is the time when they’ll have _that_ conversation. Of course, it would have to happen someday, but why now, when they’d both agreed not to let concerns take over?

“We don’t have to talk about this,” she says, with determination.

“If you want me to stop, I will, but I’d rather we clear the air before – before biting down the words turns into regret.”

“You spoke your mind already. We made a mistake, simple as that.”

“Not for me, it’s not. Behind every mistake lays a reason and I know mine. For it doesn’t matter how much I try to deny it to myself, I have grown far too fond of you.”

“You have, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale hesitates for quite a while, sketching confidently as he seems to contemplate his words. She picks up immediately on the uneasiness behind the silence, but she can wait. It takes him a while, sometimes, always has. If Crowley had a problem with that, they wouldn’t be friends, now would they?

“Sometimes,” he finally starts. “I almost feel fiercely unhappy, but I know that I shouldn’t. I’m not allowed weaknesses like that, I’m not supposed to let my resolve be broken up by feelings.”

That stuns Crowley. It’s not just that Aziraphale has those feelings; she’s known him long enough to suspect something behind the dutiful facade. It’s not just that he speaks those words, either, although she _is_ surprised by that. Much rather, she’s impressed with the similarity of her own situation.

“Yeah. I know what you mean. I know what that feels like. Hell doesn’t really allow their people to be happy, ‘s not the done thing. We’re proud of ourselves, we celebrate, we laugh at the misfortune of others, but we’re never _truly_ content.”

“Perhaps we are more alike than we tend to think.”

“Perhaps, yes,” Crowley says, and what she really means is _we are, and we’ve always been_ , but maybe it’s not the right night for fundamental discussions.

On the other side of the drawing board, Aziraphale continues to work, focused on the paper in front of him. He must be careful, since they don’t seem to have anything at hand to properly erase the lines once they’ve been laid down. Suddenly, though, he coughs slightly, to ease the way for whatever point comes next in their conversation.

“Can we decide that what happened during the storm is forgiven and forgotten? You don’t have to, of course, but it would give me some peace of mind; both of us I think.”

_Go ahead, why don’t you twist the knife in deeper_ , she thinks, but she knows that one day, they’d at least have to agree to not speak about it, so why not let that time be now? At the same time, however, there’s something wildly ridiculous about his request, as though that could make the action undone. Who could blame her for picking up on that instead of digging deeper, admitting to where they’ve gone wrong, and _why_ it was wrong in the first place[42].

“I won’t ever forget, and you don’t need to be forgiven, you’re an angel. But I can pretend.”

“Then I will gratefully accept the offer.” After a moment’s hesitation, he adds a soft “Thank you, Crowley.”

“It’d be a funny old world if we were allowed to hold on to that memory, wouldn’t it?”

“Going by your definition of _funny_ , it probably would. I’m certain I’d have a different word for it, though.” He sighs, and Crowley feels the impact of it. It sounds like the weariness of the world is coming to crash down on Aziraphale’s shoulders after centuries of threatening, and he has simply resigned himself to it. She hates the idea of that, of accepting that there’s nothing one can do except get smothered. “The word is _unattainable_ , in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t. I know what it’s like, Aziraphale. We’re in the same boat. Don’t you think I’d change things if I could?”

The angel’s hand pauses in its movements, and for a moment it seems like he’s about to answer, but then he doesn’t. Crowley hesitates, too. There’s something she wants to say, even though she knows she probably shouldn’t, but she’s felt it for far too long and she knows that the sentiment isn’t one-sided. Aziraphale doesn’t have to speak candidly to be understood. And perhaps bravery and foolishness are a good thing to combine on an evening like this.

“Don’t you think I also wonder what our lives could be like if we were humans?”

“Well, I tend to think that we wouldn’t necessarily know each other, now would we? And it’s a rather disheartening mental exercise, considering that our professions aren’t exactly ones which we can quit.”

He puts the charcoal down and carefully rises from the other side of the board. From the corner of her eye, she can see him rummaging through the commode until he finds a tin of black paint and a brush.

“Yeah, right. And besides, even if we _were_ human, we’d probably muck it up, too. Don’t think we’d live the small-town bourgeoisie life either.”

“Why, I could imagine myself very well as a local parishioner,” Aziraphale says, settling in beside her once more, and Crowley doesn’t miss the light tone of amusement in his voice.

And it’s nice to imagine that, isn’t it? Fussy, silly old Aziraphale being nothing more than the local eccentric litteratus. Not one of the very social types, mind you, but the sort who hangs around after mass on Sunday to impart his wisdom on anyone who’d listen. Always with alms for the poor, though, because no-one could take that intrinsic good away from Aziraphale.

“Just a humble member of the community, eh?” she teases, a slight smile on her face. “And who would I be?”

“Someone bourgeois, I’d presume. I know you’re giving me a look, Crowley, but I wouldn’t fancy you as an aristocrat. Besides, it’s not really _en vogue_ anymore to be a noble, is it?”

“Hm,” she huffs, albeit in amusement. “You’re right, it’s not really my style. I’d probably be the village scandal because I dare to wear trousers or something equally idiotic. Remember the time when they called trousers _women’s things_?”

Aziraphale chuckles. He reaches for the paint on the low table again and begins to fill in the contours with a black so dark and thick that Crowley can watch his progress out of the corner of her eyes, even with the paper being between them. It makes her just a little bolder, not being able to see him.

“I wonder if the upright parishioner would court the brazen spinster,” she says, and it’s only half a joke, as so many things are between them tonight.

“Perhaps I would, perhaps I wouldn’t. Who could tell? A human Aziraphale might be a very different person. I have no idea what he would do.” He clears his throat. Conspicuous as anything really, in typical Aziraphale-fashion. “I only know what _I_ think, the way I happened to be made.”

“And what do you think?”

The crusty bristles make a slightly rough sound against the paper. It gets darker with every stroke and Crowley knows that both the portrait and the conversation will come to an end soon.

“I think that I cherish having you as a friend. Sometimes I wish for things we cannot have, but I can bear that cross as long as you are by my side. Sometimes I go as far as to wish... wish you could rest your head in my lap, and I could card my fingers through your hair. I’ve always imagined it to be quite soft, you see.”

His voice is low and quiet, and Crowley can feel the way her throat threatens to burn only too well. If she was to close her eyes now, she could paint that picture so clearly, the idea of a different Aziraphale and a different Crowley; iterations of them who _could_ , who had the potential and the freedom they lacked. That is a curse of her existence, the power that a strong imagination can hold over one at the most inconvenient times.

“Wouldn’t be worth it,” she says instead, her voice rough with suppressed emotion. “You’d just prick yourself on a pin.”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t think I would care. I’d hold onto you despite your snappiness.”

“But we cannot,” Crowley rushes to say because this is a _bad_ time to get emotional. Never in front of people, never again[43].

“Indeed, we cannot.” Aziraphale pauses and lays the brush down on the edge of the paint tin. “The work is done, if you’d do me the favour of looking at it.”

Crowley nods and summons her composure. As soon as they exchange the first look, they will have to act like they usually do. Detached, unbothered. So she takes her time, lets Aziraphale handle the silhouette, which dries suspiciously quickly, before she stows away the drawing board.

She adjusts her glasses and walks over to the table where Aziraphale has laid out the drawing. It’s a precise little piece of art. Certainly, others would produce similar silhouettes with far greater skill, but for someone who indulges in the arts but rarely, it doesn’t look bad. Her nose, her glasses, the fashionable hairstyle of the decade, it’s all there. Towards the bottom, a little flourish stands out against the paper – Aziraphale’s signature.

“What do you think?” the angel asks, with an entirely unbefitting, self-satisfied smirk on his face, as though he’s barely holding back an _I told you so_.

Crowley won’t have that. “Yeah, alright, you’ve got some skill. Happy now?”

“Yes, rather. Do you want to keep it?”

She shakes her head. “You made it, ‘s yours. Like a keepsake, of sorts. You’d remember me without it of course, but eh, ‘s nice to keep things around.”

“It is, without a doubt.” He inclines his head a little, pointing towards the other trinkets that have accumulated on the commode and on the mantelpiece.

They stand in silence for a couple of moments, thinking of anything they can say on a night like this, anything that won’t entangle them further in this net of complicated circumstances. Eventually, when nothing comes up, Crowley takes off her glasses and rubs at her eyes.

“Think I’ll head upstairs. I have a couple of things to sort out, some records that I found at Belcimon’s hideout.”

Aziraphale follows her out into the corridor, a slightly concerned frown on his face. Funny, isn’t it, that he no longer seems worriless to her at all these days. There’s always this undercurrent of suspicious uneasiness.

“Of course. It’s very sensible to be prepared,” he mumbles. “We should meet again around seven, go over the plan for the day.”

He stops by the shelf under the mirror, where a couple of his books have amassed throughout the day. Crowley can imagine what this must mean; he is preparing for the inevitable goodbye as well. It’s strange – she has never seen the angel fold up his tents before. Well, _tents_ , yes, in the literal sense, back when they’d both been knights on the road, but she’s never seen him pack up his belongings and desert a house. Seems a little odd, is all. When she turns to make her way upstairs, he is sifting through the pile on the shelf, pulling at a loose sheet of paper tucked in between two volumes.

“Crowley?” his voice rings softly, when she’s already halfway up the stairs. “We aren’t granted the privilege of mistakes, but if we were, I’d choose you.”

Crowley hesitates. She doesn’t quite know what to say to that admission. The dangerous sentiment in it makes her skin tingle with a cold shiver. So she clears her throat and waves the words away.

“We can repair all this shit, you know? Can just – continue like we always did.”

“I know. We must, and we will,” he whispers.

And even though he’s quiet, he sounds more determined than Crowley’s heard him in a long time. A slight smile curls around the corners of his mouth, but it’s not the kind of genuine smile humans laud in their writings. It’s the strangely melancholic kind that goes hand in hand with the sombre understanding in his eyes. And yet, underneath it all, there’s that sliver of affection that Crowley swears will be the end of her someday.

**Footnotes.**

[36] Over the course of millennia, Aziraphale has grown to learn that humans tend to feel very embarrassed when others see them cry without being… well, allowed to. What he has also learnt is that it makes him highly uncomfortable, watching and being unable to help while knowing his presence might make the distress worse.

[37] Isaiah 29,18. Aziraphale knows scripture, despite also knowing how contradictory it is in many places.

[38] Aziraphale had got caught up a little too long on the journey back to London and Crowley’s superiors had started to get a little too pressing.

[39] Crowley had always loved coronations. There was a certain charm in being able to sense the excitement and emotion whirling around the human crowd, in seeing the gold and glamour of the ceremony. Frankfurt, however, had felt different, with the angel at his side, someone to share his strange excitement.

[40] Sometimes, she still feels that way, but she wouldn’t say so out loud, not even if she were pressed to admit it. And especially not towards Aziraphale, not in the light of recent events.

[41] How he always manages to befriend humans so quickly wherever he goes would be a mystery to anyone who doesn’t examine the nature of his friends more closely. When told that most of the angel’s friends tend to be booksellers, greengrocers, bakers and other tradespeople, the mutual benefit suddenly becomes more apparent.

[42] Some might say it was wrong because it was _good_ , but that would have involved a discussion of ethics that no-one with a slightly cracked heart would have liked to have, be it angel or demon.

[43] As though Aziraphale hasn’t seen Crowley in different states of upset dozens of times. He’d never remarked on it though, aside from what needed to be done. A quick miracle that would ensure a handkerchief in Crowley’s pocket, for example, or a secluded place on a certain boat – they didn’t call it that, but a boat by any other name…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. This took quite longer than expected, but life in 2020 is a struggle. If you're still following the story, I'd greatly appreciate a comment. Tell me what you thought! It's what keeps me writing instead of screaming into the void.

**Author's Note:**

> A bit more than half of this fic is already written. It will update weekly.


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